


Consider This

by spaceOdementia



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama & Romance, Epistolary, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hate to Love, I wrote this before Frozen 2 came out, Never thought I'd write Frozen fanfic but here I am, Slow Build, so no spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 65,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceOdementia/pseuds/spaceOdementia
Summary: A self-proclaimed irredeemable prince and a newly, self-realized queen share correspondence by letters. Hers, bordered with ice and crisp with frost. His, soaked in disdain and a distinct lack of humility.
Relationships: Elsa/Hans (Disney)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 216





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will consist of two parts. The first part will entirely consist of letters—think You've Got Mail, except the owners of the letters know exactly who they're talking to. This is also another writing challenge for myself. Could I make it believable and fun to read and nuanced enough for you to hear their voices through only letters? I honestly have no idea about that either, but it was fun to try. Any reviews, comments, love, hate, thoughts, ideas are all welcomed with joy and endless gratitude, as always. 
> 
> Also: each letter is approximately 1 to 2 weeks apart from one another.   
> Also also: this fic was posted on ffnet a while back, and I never posted it here, for whatever reason. In any case, I'm finally rectifying the situation. Happy reading!

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

I hope this letter finds you—

_In a gutter, your pride soaking up the sewage of your city._

—well. You may be surprised to find this letter addressed to you, as it surprises me just as much to be writing it. I find myself unable to lighten the burden of my thoughts without bidding you any words of farewell. You were taken into custody—

_and rightly so, as you tried to behead me at my weakest, when I truly wished for death, you despicable cretin._

—quite suddenly, and I did not have a chance to face you before you headed back to your home and your own personal punishment. While I have regretted the lack of parting words with you in person, I now find myself writing this letter to you out of an unquestionable need for my own peace of mind.

I am not one to take pleasure in bestowing grief on anyone. You are—

_the one exception._

—not exempt from this. While the grievances you have laid against my sister and I shall never be forgotten, I—

_can hold a grudge against you until I take my last breath._

—cannot withhold my necessity to forgive. Over these past few months, I have found it is not within my heart to hold grudges against mistakes that were made out of desperation, blind arrogance, or the all-consuming greed that may foster a home within the spirits of—

_only the weakest of men._

—strong and weak men, alike. Whether you are strong or weak is—

_not even in question, you manipulative, scathing coward._

—not in my ability to judge, and I am certain you will face trials which will determine who and what you are, and who and what you decide to be.

I want it to be made very clearly. Whatever demons you may face—

_and I hope they are many._

—I, Queen Elsa of Arendelle, shall not be one of those demons. What you have done to my sister and I was treacherous, conniving, and evil. Yet, instead of breaking us apart, it has made us realize our strength and our endless love for one another. You have shown me what it is to overcome fear. You have played a role in building the enduring authority of my kingdom. I would be lying if I said I was not grateful for what you have brought to light in the nature of these events—

_but I am not a liar._

—and I mean this, in the coldest part of my soul and the warmest chambers of my heart.

Be well, Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles, with wherever the rest of this life takes you.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

* * *

Dearest Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

You were right. I was surprised to see a letter addressed to me from the Queen, herself, though I'm sure, not surprised in the way you think. I'm surprised it has taken you three months to put ink to parchment, to finally collect your thoughts into a form of coherency that was both beautiful and, unfortunately, counterfeit.

Up until now, I found I had a deep, begrudging respect for the reigning Queen of Arendelle. I've wondered time and again over these months what your punishment for me would be. Frostbite? Freezing and thawing my heart, over and over until it burst in my chest? Impalement by icicles? All would have been approved by each of my brothers, with the utmost support of my mother and father.

Yet, you decide on forgiveness. You must know this forgiveness is an impertinence. How dare you believe me to want it? You write as though it would be a gift, a key unlocking one of my shackles. Perhaps it will surprise you that your feelings toward my staged coup of your kingdom never entered my mind. It has never been a burden to me. Have you forgotten that I'm the irredeemable, manipulative, handsome, and unwanted thirteenth Prince of the Southern Isles? Nothing you can say or do will leave me begging for your mercy. In fact, your mercy is the last thing I want. The only thing I wanted from you was your kingdom, but I showed you my crux of a hand. I fail, Queen Elsa. Being the _lucky_ number thirteen, that is what I am destined to do, and that is what I will do for the rest of my life.

Your letter was riddled with lies. The words in it were pretty, and I suppose they made you feel better once you sent the letter off to find me. I know self-serving actions when I see them, Queen. You meant not one word of what you spent _weeks_ developing.

You _did_ mean the frost on the edges of the parchment. It was a nice touch. Next time, use your ice and your honesty. The lies are a waste of time—both yours and mine.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

I did not expect you to reply to my letter. How thoughtful of you to set aside time in your lonely cell to formulate a response.

I take the utmost pity on you. I did hope my offering of forgiveness would aid you, if not in relieving a burden, then potentially aiding in character and humility. However, like with most things when it comes to you, I was wrong.

I have not forgotten who you are. I merely overestimated the manners of a Prince, being thirteenth in line notwithstanding. Your upbringing has failed you in the regard of character development, but, as you say, you fail in all other aspects. This does not come as a shock.

Regardless, I maintain what I said in my previous letter. You do have my forgiveness, whether it is truly an impertinence to you or not. You have brought many things to light, and unfortunately for you, all of these things are wonderful building blocks to a better community and kingdom.

I will give you this: when you fail, you certainly fail well.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

P.S. The frost will be unavoidable. I am sure you will appreciate it.

* * *

My Dearest Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

Now, these words sound like you. They match how you hold yourself—austere, biting, and cold. Even flippant. Is that sarcasm I read, as well? What a mixed bag. I should have went after you, first, instead of Princess Anna. You would have been so much fun to court. A chase rather than an easy sigh. Princess Anna was so trusting. It was almost loathsome. One smile, and she literally fell into my arms.

That was partially your fault. You had made her so desperate and longing for attention and company. Why, you had groomed her just for a villain like me. I'm sure you've learned your lesson by now—what was the wording you used before? I "brought many things to light". I'm sure one of those things brought to light was your failures, as well, Queen Elsa.

Tell me. Is awareness of your failures liberating, or does it cause you pain? When you look back on your past and forward to your future, do you still feel a cage around you? Do you feel as though the world continues to contain you? Or does it feel as if it's pushing you out?

I do appreciate the frost. You were right about that, for once.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

You have a certain level of audacity that is always so unappealing. The only loathsome thing that stepped into our home was you. You toyed with my sister's heart for fun, you let Arendelle believe you had their best interests, you played at being a hero. I'm sure you thought your acting skills were very A-list. Have you gotten any offers for roles in the traveling troupes or plays? If you haven't, I will be _utterly_ dumbfounded.

I find myself laughing at the idea of you attempting to court me. If only you had. You would have been frozen on my coronation day, and my sister would have been saved from dealing with your despicable smile.

You like talking about failure. Why is that? Do you require someone else's failures to feed off of, because your own are not enough? Do you need to deflect your failures so as not to feel so sorry for yourself? If that's the case, then no. I can't help you. My failures led to victories. What did your failures lead to? Oh, I know. They led to loneliness and a cell. Shackles, too, didn't they? I've heard about your punishments through the rumor mill. I'm sure you wear those shackles as if they're golden bangles. Those are all the rage right now in the Southern Isles. I truly hope your family did not take mercy on you, as they told me they would not.

Failures only push me to be better. They don't contain me, Prince Hans, and the pain felt from them is only a temporary respite from conquering them. The world beckons for strength and progress. Far be it for me to ignore that.

You seem to me to be the type to ignore.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

* * *

Dearest Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

It is an easy thing to talk about strength and victories through the medium of letters. I wonder, would you have enough courage to talk like this without the protection of ink and seals? Would you glare down at me while you determine the words that would cut through me most? I imagine you would glow in your frost and puncture my skin with your ice, much akin to a witch or sorceress. Tell me, do your eyes glow, as well? If not with magic, then I am sure with the purest disdain.

I have another question. Why do you debase yourself with this continued correspondence? I cannot imagine you waiting on the parcels to arrive, gleaning over notes and the callings of other dynasties, the golden emblems of other Dukes, Duchesses, Kings, and Queens, desperately awaiting for your fingers to land on the textured parchment that bears my signature _H_ on the lip of the seal. A Queen has a myriad of other duties that take much higher precedence than the words of a traitor.

Why do you put time aside to parry words with me? Is it your pride, Queen Elsa? Can you not allow me the last word?

Is it the glowing embers of your hatred, underlying the ice within you? Is it that every letter you receive stokes the fire, just as it is on the edge of being extinguished by your chilled fingers?

Or could it be, Your Royal Highness, that deep down in the murky chambers of your heart, that you enjoy this repartee? Do my words quicken your breath, do they flush your skin? Do they make you growl with immeasurable frustration? Do your hands shake as you cut words into the parchment of the next letter, unable to contain your wrath? I imagine you've fumbled a time or two, throwing out letters that have spilled ink stains and illegible scrawl. As calm and collected as you portray yourself, Queen, the tumult of the basest emotions surely unfurl behind the closed doors of your personal chambers.

Ah, but then, each of these is purely speculation. I do not believe a woman of your _stature_ and _elegance_ would _ever_ allow herself to feel anything for a scoundrel who wanted not only her life, but her kingdom.

Tell me the truth, Queen. I dare you.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

Your list of speculations is astounding and creative. It would be impressive had you been anyone else. However, due to the nature of who you decided to be and who you have become, each speculation listed against me is wrought with arrogance and narcissism.

Your self-aggrandizing is audacious in the way that I've come to think about you. You are attempting to find ways that make you important. It is as similar as mining for coal in a desert. You will never find importance no matter how doggedly you try to trick your mind into believing it.

For once, when you shed the arrogance, you are correct. For me to feel any of the basest of emotions toward you, I must first feel _something_. It is a stretch for me to call you a person—you are soulless, heartless, and self-proclaimed in your position to be irredeemable. You are much akin to the scum that collects along the drain of a bathtub. Dirty, unpleasant, and hurriedly discarded once noticed. No one pauses to care when flushed into the sewage line.

For a lady of my _stature_ , as you call me, to give you any inkling of emotion above the level of apathy would be nothing less than betraying myself. No self-respecting woman would disservice herself in such a way. As clever as you think you are, I do not believe it to be a stretch for you to understand this.

You will never feel the satisfaction of receiving anything more than my apathy.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

* * *

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

It would be an understatement to say I'm disappointed with your last response. You answered with boring predictability. You allowed yourself to answer with a door that has been open since the beginning. You are _so_ self-respecting. You can turn your nose up to filth, because you are a _Queen_. You are _superior._ You do not lower yourself to clean the scum that you do not care for—you let your servants do it. I am sure they tell you how honored they are to clean your grime.

I allowed myself to think you would be truthful. Yet, again, you lie. Once a liar, always a liar—that _is_ what you believe, isn't it? I'm a liar, and you will never believe anything I say ever again. I'm sure I don't have to mention how hypocritical this statement is. You've held onto a lie all your life. Why, that's more accomplished than I have ever been. Then, against all odds, you were forgiven. You were bestowed with a second chance by your sister and your people. Have you ever paused to think on that?

Have you ever noticed how similar we are? And how dissimilar? Both isolated then set free. Both choosing to make mistakes. One is forgiven, and one is not. One embracing freedom, one condemned. You may deny this. I would be disappointed if you did not.

You never answered my question, Queen. Why do you continue to write? To feel apathy for me—true apathy—you would never have sent the first letter, much less opened the first letter I sent back to you. You can bite and growl and deny and ridicule my character as much as you like. I welcome it. It's…refreshing. As I sit here and spend inordinate amounts of time thinking on who I really am, it's always helpful receiving your input.

I know why I write. I've never been a fan of denial. It has always left a bitter, lingering taste. I'm not sure how you've managed to subsist on it so much and for so long.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	5. Chapter 5

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

I appreciate your insights on my character. It is only fitting, as I have given you ample description of what I see when I think of your name.

You were right. I did not answer your question. I claim apathy, and perhaps you are correct in believing that I persist in lying. Why would I write to my arch-nemesis? Why would I put myself through reading your words, which may well enough be fabricated into a blanket of manipulation? You may be playing me, once more, and I am well aware of the possibility. I am many things, but I will not allow myself to play a fool.

You must know this: I have feigned apathy all my life, until it was no longer feigning. I denied until it was no longer denying. It became truth. For years, it was difficult to feel anything but fear for what pain I might unknowingly inflict on others. Some days, it is still a struggle, but I am lucky. I am surrounded by people who have always loved me, and individuals who can forgive my transgressions.

I do and will continue to write. I want to prove to myself that the fear, and anger, and hatred I feel toward myself can be surmounted and overcome. You will never know the guilt I hold over my choices or my lack of self-control. Never will you know the abhorrence that filled me when I almost killed my sister not once, but twice. Never will you know. Never will anyone.

I write these letters because they are a continual test. Because I deserve it. You are only one man, but you are the one who holds my mistakes, my consequences, and my most inadequate qualities on a pedestal, forcing me to own up to them every time I receive the telltale parchment of your letter in the bundle of parcels. You bring out the best in me, and in the same breath, you bring out the worst in me.

I cannot claim to be generous, kindhearted, merciful, or empathetic when I write to you. I will not defend areas of my character that I do not feel need to be defended by the likes of you. You would not believe me, or you would throw back the words _arrogant_ and _narcissistic_ and _hypocrite_ to my face _._ If you did, I would not be able to fault you, because those words would very much describe me if I listed the qualities that I am proud of maintaining, throughout everything that has happened.

On your words of how we are similar. It is unsettling to think we can be in anyway compared to one another. You, covetous and demeaning, a liar and a cheat. Yet, it pains me to say that the ruling thumb of denial has hid this mark of similarity like a shadow over my heart. I have denied, because I am good at it. I have overlooked it, because I did not feel the necessity of looking so closely. We are both creatures of our past mistakes, but you must explain something to me.

What type of isolation were you inflicted?

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

* * *

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

This may disgust you, but you intrigue me. You have finally answered me. You allowed yourself to be free of the expected responses. Formalities and predictability are all well and good, but in my experiences, they reek of thinly veiled insults behind false smiles. I've seen it time and again within my family, patriarchs, and political discussions.

To answer your question, the isolation I was inflicted is not the kind you think of when you think of isolation. You were shut away—shut inside. You locked yourself inside of your own skin. It was a choice you made, and that choice was made out of protecting the people whom you loved.

Mine is not so noble or honorable. I was a thirteenth son, which you know. The latter half of my brothers were too old to acknowledge my existence after my christening, and the younger half were a bit like me. They will more than likely not inherit any part of a kingdom. They took out frustration on each other and me, as boys do. I was invisible to most of them, and the two brothers closest to me in age acted as though I truly was invisible. I did not exist. Laughable, now, when I think of it. It sounds like I'm complaining. Poor little Hans, left lonely and ignored. I am not trying to paint that picture, so I will say I will be as frank with you as I can. At least, until I have the urge to _lie_ and _manipulate_ again.

I was raised by governesses and servants. I was a difficult child. I made things difficult on purpose, because I wanted attention. I believe I went through five governesses by the time I turned fourteen. I overheard some of them quitting, or pleading with my parents before they turned in their resignation. None of my brothers were as unruly as I. My behavior consisted of tantrums when I wouldn't get my way, but I knew if I was bad enough, my parents would take notice and give me attention. The attention would be punishments, but it was attention all the same.

As I went through puberty, I began to learn that I could get most of what I wanted if I smiled enough, and if I said the right things. If I took notice of people as much as I wanted to be noticed by my family, they were easily manipulated. It is a wonder where an ounce of charm and smiling will get you in the world, especially if you mention you are a Prince.

I can blame my family. I was a mistake. They never wanted a thirteenth child. My parents spread themselves too thin. What with caring for all the children and keeping their social status with dignitaries and relations with Kings and Queens of other countries in good condition…well, just thinking about the juggling act is exhausting.

And because I can blame my family, I do not. It is only another outlet for anger, and all blame seems to do is build with nowhere to go. Regardless, they would never belittle themselves enough to accept the blame. It was not their intention for me to marry into a beautifully rich kingdom. It was not their intention for me to do anything with my life. They never expected anything from me other than failure, and you have seen how well I have maintained their expectations.

I guess you could say my isolation was first inflicted by my family. Later, it was inflicted by my own hands. I eventually began to stop caring about others and caring only about where I could position myself, to finally reach above where I was destined to stay.

So, I understand about isolation, Queen Elsa. I understand about apathy and hate. I know about exploitation and manipulation. I will neither admit or deny to continuing my manipulations through these letters. I will not say I am trying to play to your strengths of generosity and kindheartedness and mercy. I will say nothing, because while I believe myself to be clever enough to fool you, I also believe I have become clever enough not to.

It's up to you whether or not to believe me.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	6. Chapter 6

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

Being lonely is different than being alone. Were you either, or were you both?

I tried not to be either, but I would find myself feeling the effects of both. Some days were desperately lonely. Some days, I was merely alone. The main difference between you and I is that I was raised by my parents. They had help with servants, of course, but none so much as you paint for your experiences.

I will neither say that I pity you or if I believe you. I will not say whether my heart aches for the hand you were dealt or whether I wish you would have stayed your place as you claim was your destiny. I cannot say one way or another, because I do not have any example for when you were once honest or working toward something that was not only for your gain, but for someone else's.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

P.S. Where do you write your letters? Are you in a cell, or are you comfortably swathed in the blankets of your own bed? Rumors are only that. Your parents only say that you have been taken care of. But I must know.

* * *

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

I was lonely. I was never alone. I was always surrounded by people, though they always seemed a world away. They did not try to understand me, and in turn, I forced myself to understand them. You see, power and control come in all forms. I had to control something outside of me. I was not blessed with powers like yours, Queen Elsa. If I had been, perhaps the need for power would not have been so prominent. Or maybe I always would have been interested in power, even if my life were different. Had my life more meaning, would I have still dabbled in treachery and exploiting others for my own gain? That answer will never be known.

Ah, you are mimicking me. Clever. At least, you are clever now. Were you clever before? I didn't get to know you before. Am I rubbing off on you? Or are you mocking me? I'd like to think both. You may refute that, but be warned. If you do, it will only solidify the notion. The surest way to admit to something is to deny it. You are probably aware, given…everything. Avoiding the answer only makes me more curious.

I wonder. You mention your heart may ache for what I endured in my past. If I were able to convince you, would you still feel that way?

Before I answer your post-script, tell me. Where do _you_ think I write these letters?

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	7. Chapter 7

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

I have always been clever. Have these letters not given you ample enough evidence of that?

Power is a blessing and a curse, Prince Hans, no matter how you are able to access it. People like you who covet it are the most dangerous. What do you covet, now? Has the chase for power exhausted you? Power takes diligence. It is fickle and has allegiance to no one. To be honest, I wonder if you would want to keep it if you ever laid hands upon it.

Are you rubbing off on me? I don't know. Are you?

My heart aches for anyone who deserves it. Do you? That, I also don't know, but I don't believe you ever will.

I asked you first. Where do you write them?

Try to refrain from lying. Oh, but once a liar, always a liar, isn't that what you said?

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

* * *

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

I see. You've always been clever. I guess you've always been full of sass, too.

I agree with you, Queen Elsa. Power in the wrong hands will turn even meek creatures into monsters. Once, I thought power would do the opposite. Not turning a monster meek, but tempering a monster. Give a monster some semblance of responsibility, and perhaps the monster would stop evolving. Give a monster something to care for, and then…the monster wouldn't be as feared.

I cannot say that I still covet power. These past few months, I have tried to figure out who I want to be. Is it possible to be someone else? To become someone else? After all these years, I didn't think a person could change. Ideals could change, opinions could change. But what makes a person? I can't change the blood in my veins. I can't change the chemistry of my brain. What a heart wants—could that change? Will I always covet what I don't have?

To tell you the truth—and I promise, I am going to try whether you believe it or not—I coveted power so that my family would give me the recognition I always thought I deserved. I wanted so badly to be in the fold of the Westergaards. I wanted something from them. Anything other than their mild indifference and disgust. I wanted their smiles and their laughter. I wanted…something other than a room in a castle. Something other than the color of my hair and the structure of my bones. Power was the only avenue, then.

Now? Now, I don't think there's another way. The only area I'm exhausted in is figuring out what other road I can take. No, perhaps you're right. Power—the search of power—has exhausted me. To earn their pride and a place within their circle was to kill you, Queen Elsa. Kill you or marry you. I can hear your remarks, already. You would have been too clever to marry me, you would have seen through my tactics, you would have frozen me before I could have kissed your hand. That is what you have said before, in so many words, and I believe you.

Am I rubbing off on you? For your sake, I truly hope not.

Let me be clear, Queen Elsa. I'll never deserve anything from you. I know this. You know this. But the possibility? The potential of deserving anything? From anyone who matters? That is more than I could dare to hope for as a man in my position.

Perhaps you will think these are pretty words to fool you. I'll admit it, first, because I know my hope sounds far-fetched. It sounds flowery. It sounds…well, I know how it sounds. I'm embarrassed to write down my hopes and dreams. It feels as though I'm writing a journal entry, except the journal writes back to me.

But I will say I am still a man. I am still a man with hope, though, you may ask, how could a man like me hope for anything? Hopes are unrealized dreams. They're a feeling. That's all. Nothing will come of them if there is no action made to have them. All I've ever done is hurt the people around me. I didn't mention it before, because why should I? It had been a similarity between us, once. Perhaps I hang on to these letters because of that.

Fine. You win. I write these letters in our castle's basement.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	8. Chapter 8

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

I don't believe people can truly change. You're right. They can change opinions or ideals or the way they carry themselves. However, I do believe they can become better versions of themselves. They can do better, be better. They can try harder. With the right support, I believe anyone can achieve anything they set their mind to. Perhaps you think me naïve for saying so, but I have seen this happen for others.

Coveting what you don't have is easy, especially if you think your life will be better once you get it. I've desperately wanted my powers to leave me. I've wanted to wake up and have them magically vanish. This will never be an option, so instead of turning to hate or anger, I have chosen to use my powers to the best of my ability. I have chosen to try and be thankful of what I can do for others that would be impossible without them. It is not easy, but I think that's one of life's trials for everyone. We are not always dealt with hands we want, but we are never dealt hands we cannot conquer and overcome. And you know what? I love my powers, most days. I enjoy who I am becoming.

Who is the monster you speak of, Prince Hans?

That isn't fair. You can't tell me you write the letters in a basement and not give me the real details. Is the basement a dungeon? Are you shackled to a wall? Do you have a four poster bed? A window? Do you traverse your castle with your own free will? Is your custody even custody, or are you merely under house arrest? The details are what matter.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

* * *

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

If I admitted to house arrest, I don't think I'd survive another week without your icy wrath.

You paint beautiful visions of people, Queen Elsa. I wonder if one day I can be a better version of myself. Is there such a thing? I don't know. Perhaps the first step is actually believing I can be. I want to be. It seems inconceivable. Like my hopes, it seems a bit...flowery. Too...happy. I'm not an optimist.

You are probably the only person I would trust with powers like yours. I've heard secondhand about all the good deeds you've accomplished. I've heard the exaltation and eagerly genuine compliments of Arendelle's Queen. And I have firsthand experience. When I sit here and think about all the things I could do with what you have...

The monster. It is not a huge leap of thought to conclude of whom I speak. Would you like me to admit to who?

The words love and family have never been included in the same sentence. Maybe they do love me—in the way that they love to deepen wounds and sneer with disappointment. Maybe they loved me once. Maybe they never have. You'd have to ask them.

I will probably always love them in some twisted way. I'm sure I love them under my grief and my anger. I'm sure my love for them is hidden far in the depths of my frozen heart. Probably.

Tell me, Queen Elsa. Do you think I can love anyone other than myself? No one believes I can. Everyone tells me I'll die and no one will notice I'm gone.

I'm giving you an opening I hardly allow. I am awaiting an answer that will absolutely crucify me.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles

P.S. I am shackled by my ankles, but I have a window that looks to the ocean. The servants send food, but this room is my home, now. Before you say anything, I know it could be worse. Much worse. Where do you write? In your bed chambers?


	9. Chapter 9

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

Admit to who the monster is. Will your pride allow it?

Hm. You have a window in a basement? I'm curious as to the architecture of the Southern Isles.

The hardest step is believing. One must believe in themselves before they can truly accomplish anything worth merit. Belief ebbs and flows. It is much like the ocean you may or may not be looking to as you read this letter, but know this: hopes and dreams are powerful fuels. Grasp them. Use them. As you say, they mean nothing if you let them waste away. If you truly want to be better? Then you will be.

Love grows whether it is wanted or not. It can grow in desolate wastelands and the most bountiful highlands. No one can escape its notice. That includes you, Prince, even if you are despicable, a liar, and a cheat. Love is what looks past the exterior and finds the good underneath the muck. Whether that means you and your family will reconcile...well, that is to be determined with time. That's the thing, too. Anything great takes time.

You're not an optimist? You've certainly had me fooled with all your talk of _flowery hope_.

I write these letters in our family library, which is approximately two stories and three hallways away from my bed chambers. Even if I did stumble to bed with parchment and pen, you really think I would tell you? Apparently, you've learned nothing about me.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

P.S. Are you disappointed? I didn't crucify you, but that is merely because I am exhausted of crucifying. Surely you know what an ogre you are without me having to repeat myself time and again.

* * *

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

I've always been the monster. A fiend. I care about no one, and no one cares about me. Like a metaphor, _the wolf in sheep's clothing._ The most frightening of monsters, in my experience, have been the individuals who were born completely ordinary. I was born weak and useless and ordinary, and what do you think that's made me?

Worry not. I'm still very prideful. I'm nearly snarling with it as I write this. Can you tell? The ink is running out too fast. I have to dip my quill into the ink well over and over and over. It drives me crazy. I think I'm going mad for no other reason than the ink isn't lasting for more than a few words at a time.

Belief must be like sand. I grasp and grasp, I throw it against the wall, I try to put it in a jar. It seems to seep into the cracks of the wooden floorboards, eluding me always. Maybe one day I'll be buried chin deep in it without ever realizing I had it in the first place.

Elsa—can I call you by your name? You can't answer until this letter arrives to you, so I'll take my liberties while I can. Elsa, what does love feel like? Does it feel like glory or a rush of power? Does it make you feel unstoppable? For the life of me, I've always thought I've known. I'm coming to realize I never have—not truly. I've got an idea, just like anyone. I've seen it unfurl before my eyes. I've read the sonnets and listened to the songs. I know the descriptions and the foundation. I've also seen its decoys. How does one tell genuine emotion from imposters? It's the most powerful emotion in the world. To be honest, I think it's overrated.

Interestingly enough, I'm not disappointed in the lack of crucifixion. I wanted to say I was. I had my whole reply already written out for you. I can send it if you'd like, but it's a bit lacking in…inspiration. And my witty verve. Not my best work. A bit embarrassing. I think I'm becoming bored of saying the same things about you in a hundred different ways.

I _am_ disappointed that there is a possibility of you _not_ writing to me in an intimate room. I write to you in my most intimate room. I write to you from my bed pallet. I write to you as I look out toward the ocean. I write to you when the moonlight hits the edge of my desk. I'm sure if you read this letter close enough, you could smell the scent of must and rock walls that surround me. I've imagined some of these letters lying on your comforters. Resting on your pillows. The edges of parchment being dented by your fingers as you think how to respond back to me, before you let the frost collect. What odd things to imagine. I'd throw this letter out and start anew, but I fear I'm too tired to begin it, again. Besides, this is supposed to be like a journal entry, is it not?

On the contrary, Elsa, I think I've learned a lot about you so far. That's why I believe you write these letters in your library. It's why I find myself imagining you writing them elsewhere.

Yours,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles


	10. Chapter 10

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

You admitted it. I didn't think you would. I've never seen such viciously written words. No wonder your ink continued to run out.

You may be a Prince by title and birthright, but that is not how I see you. I see you as a commoner. I do not allow for commoners to call me by my first name. Without my title, it denotes familiarity. In some aspects, it denotes lack of respect. Which of the two are you playing toward?

When you collect the first handful of belief, tell me. It'll appear if you truly want it.

Love?

My sister, as _you_ know, thinks of it as an open door, full of possibilities and vulnerability. I see it a little differently. To me, love is a flood. It's like you've eaten a large meal because you were starving, but you didn't know it. You feel very full—like you're going to burst—but it's not uncomfortable. It makes you feel as though you can shed your doubts and allow yourself to fit into newly realized skin. That's the love I've felt. You'll know it from the imposters, because it is unexplainable. You can't rationalize it, and it defies your denial. Trust me.

It saddens me that you have to ask.

You had written a whole reply without having any context about my answer? That's creative. You must have a lot of time on your hands, don't you? To reply to an answer that doesn't exist. I'd tell you to send it to me to call your bluff, but you have ample time to write one between this letter and the next. I am curious, though. I wonder what makes it so embarrassing for you? I'd like to read something that lacks "your witty verve", as you call it.

You _must_ have a lot of time on your hands if you can imagine such things. Maybe you are going mad, Prince Hans. Not because of the ink, but because no sane man would write to their enemy about receiving a letter from them that has touched the enemy's pillow, or vice versa. Are you certain you aren't running a fever? Perhaps you should check.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

P.S. If it wasn't clear, no, you may not call me Elsa.

* * *

Dear Elsa,

That settles it, then. Because you denied me, I now have to do it. It's your fault. You were supposed to say yes, and it would have shocked me so much I would have continued calling you Queen. And here, I thought _you_ knew _me_ better.

I do not have fever, but I always seem to be on the verge of sweating when I receive your parcels. Can you tell me why? My heart races, but it isn't out of fear or anger. The cold parchment always seems to save me from the fire blazing under my skin. The chill calms my mind. I think I may be trying to thank you, but probably not.

Ah, so that's what it is. Love. A flood. That sounds fitting. It's curious. When I think of a flood, I think of drowning and untimely deaths. Yet you speak of a freedom and a newness. If ever I find it, I will tell you. I doubt I'll feel it the same way as you.

You don't believe me about the reply? I shouldn't be surprised. No, I didn't write it between reading your last letter and now, though I wouldn't have put it past myself. I guess I am crazy enough to write a letter to a fictitious reply that I'd imagined during all of the free time I have, as you say. Maybe I'll send it to you, someday, when I'm not so annoyed by the disingenuous wording and predictability.

I'll refute your claim about time. All it takes to imagine something is a brief second. A hint or evidence of a possibility that never crossed your mind. Your thumbprint was smudged with ink along the corner of the letter before last, and I noticed it once the ice thawed. There was a divot in the paper from the pressure of your thumb. Ever since, I've imagined all kinds of things. It doesn't seem to matter what time of day.

What have you imagined, Elsa? Nothing? You can tell me. I have no one to spill your secrets.

Yours,

Prince Hans

P.S. Call me by my name. I don't mind as much as you do.

P.P.S. What you said about the pillow…does that mean your letters _have_ touched your pillow?


	11. Chapter 11

Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

You never answered me. Familiarity or disrespect?

You're right. I should have known better. I began to believe you were more human than merely being. Are you always so exasperating? Stop calling me by my name. You are not allowed.

I am also positive that you're sick. Influenza? Poison? Flesh eating bacteria? It may be terminal. You should request for a healer, if they allow one near you in your imprisonment. And, no, you are not welcome, since you are not sure if you're thanking me in the first place.

What way do you think love will make you feel? Instead of fullness, or a flood, how do you believe it will find you? As overrated as you think it is, do you think it will affect you in any way at all? It saddens me that you think the power of love is so…ineffectual. Did you not see how it changed my life?

You are certainly imaginative, Prince Hans. Imaginative, yet perceptive. I will admit that I do spend more time than I believe I should, formulating responses to your letters. Your letters are not diplomatic nor political. They call me to a challenge each time I decide to open them. It is a word game we're playing. Half the time I want to allow myself to believe the words you send me, and the other half, I spend time thinking about the sword flying toward my neck, and the arm propelling the force behind it.

My imagination entails you repenting for your sins, arms and legs shackled underneath a cruel island sun, forced into manual labor. Sometimes, you are loading crates full of goods to be exported onto the hundreds of boats of your Southern Isles. Sometimes, you are in the fields, plowing and harvesting crops under the harsh eyes of plantation owners who believe you to be a commoner, not realizing there is such a thing as a thirteenth Prince.

Then, I imagine you, weary and alone at night in your basement, reading and writing these letters—as you say, with the moonlight hitting the edge of your desk, gripped with an unknown illness. Your eyes swim with misery as you stare at these letters or the walls around you, thinking of words to twirl into the parchment.

Sometimes, when I am feeling kindhearted, I imagine you lying in your bed pallet, with your weary mind pondering and embracing all of your flowery hopes, looking forward to the potential of a future. In my darker moments, I imagine you lying in your bed pallet and realizing how desperate and unreachable your flowery hopes are, with your soul wilting in its own despair.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

P.S. I will not.

P.P.S. Once.

* * *

Elsa,

I've disrespected you enough for a few lifetimes. Is that an agreeable statement? My answer is familiarity, but this may be due to the nature of my isolation. Your letters constitute as my only communication outside of these castle walls.

I've never been nothing if not exasperating.

No, I have no illness. I have no physical fever. Though my family would like me to die, they would be very disappointed if I left this world to something as merciful as illness.

The only sensation I've felt from love, in the beginning of my life, was the opposite of what you say. I felt empty. I felt a desperate sense of wanting to fill that emptiness. I know of the power of love, Elsa, but you forget that it does not have only one power. You found love on the side of goodness, of kindness and gentleness. There is also the love that begets greed, the love that makes people kill and turn to madness. The kind of love that taps into the darkness and breeds hate. There's that kind of love that will make you do anything for someone, even if it means to lose your morals, your values, the things you never thought you'd question. Love is a lot of things. It is supposed to be unselfish, but in my experience, it is the most selfish thing of all.

I agree with you about these letters. They are unlike anything I've ever written. They did begin as word games, to play and provoke. It may still feel this way to you, but it is no longer this way for me. As I've said before, the words I write now are akin to a stream of consciousness, like writing entries in a journal. I no longer think about how I can twist my words to confuse you or attempt to manipulate, or even if I want to manipulate or force you to question yourself. At first, it was a pastime to take my mind off of other things. Another endeavor for me to find my footing. It hits me now that you've never asked me why I was writing to you. You undoubtedly and more than likely wisely assumed that it was nothing but for my own mischievous devices, and you would have been correct. Now, I think, I'm writing because I have nothing else.

It is disquieting how you have imagined my life. Your depiction is quite accurate. A few months prior, I was under nothing but house arrest in this basement. My family came to the consensus that it would be beneficial for me to have a punishment that entailed something other than wallowing in a room and shackled to a wall. They know my pride and how crippling my ego can be. They decided on the thing that would have the highest potential to break them both. They did not explicitly take away my title as Prince, and they did not disown me with writing. However, they did keep me in shackles, labeled me as a prisoner due to my "treasonous activity, reckless conduct, and attempted double homicide", and graciously allowed me to labor for free in the farmlands that are all but disconnected from any and all communication of the outside world, on the westernmost part of the main Isle. Most in these areas don't realize, or care, there are six Princes, let alone thirteen, and most of the laborers in these lands are previously convicted felons, people like me, or people who are running away from something. This is the place for people with questionable backgrounds. Even if I claimed to be the thirteenth Prince of the Southern Isles, most if not all of the farmhands would only pity me or whip the delusions out of me. This is the place where pride and ego die under the heat and humidity of the island sun.

So, you were almost right, Elsa. I labor in the farmlands, but I am not allowed anywhere near the shipping docks. Word of the shame I've brought upon my family would be too much for my parents to bear, and my eldest brothers are in charge of the imports and exports. Their other job is to spread the good tidings of the royal family. The people of the Southern Isles are none the wiser.

I give in to my weariness as I write to you. It is hard for me to keep up a façade, these days, or to infuse my words with the bite I wanted to provoke you with over and over. There is something freeing in giving it up. It is…addictive. I want to refuse it, and yet I find myself doing it over and over. I've haven't been this honest in...well, since before I realized no one liked to listen to me.

You told me to hold onto my hope, and yet you imagine me losing it. Which is it, Elsa?

Yours,

Hans

P.S. I guess you could call me Hendrick. That's my new name, to everyone outside of the castle.

P.P.S. Which letter?


	12. Chapter 12

Dear Commoner Hendrick of the Southern Isles,

That name suits you. It sounds like a well-to-do peasant down on hard times rather than an egotistical, prideful thirteenth Prince.

Do you not talk with your fellow farmhands or laborers? You are not strictly isolated, though perhaps you are too busy with manual work to care much for conversation.

Your opinion on love is very decided. The words on the parchment feel rigid, as if pressed with much force from your inked quill. I understand different breeds of love exist, and I am not so naïve to say that true love conquers all. But I fear that the love you speak of isn't love at all. Selfish love is not true love. Selfish love ends. It is a frayed rope, and it will get you nowhere. It unravels into a million threads, and it can lead to greed and hate, as you say. But that love is the imposter. That love is a shell, and it is but a brief happenstance. So easy is it to fall into the trap of this falsehood, because it feels so very real.

I will say this again: when you feel true love, you _will_ know. It is different. It beats like a heart. It throbs like a wound. However, I don't expect to persuade you. I merely want you to…keep an open mind.

Do you truly write because you have nothing else? My skepticism never seems to leave me as I read over your words, but I am hard pressed to wonder about the gentle, slow curves of your handwriting in the thoughtful paragraphs. They are decidedly calmer than the missives from weeks before. I can hardly believe it's been nearly eight months since the first letter I sent you.

These farmlands—which crops do you farm? What type of land do you till? I will dare you something. Erase my skepticism, Prince Hans. Do something that will irrevocably alter all of my suspicions.

Because if you can do this, I think I will always want you to hold onto hope.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

P.S. The first.

* * *

Elsa,

I'm glad you think I live up to my commoner name. Honestly, I still thought it sounded a bit snooty.

I've sent a package with the letter. My main servant—not servant. I should call him my guard, as that is his true job. He makes sure I do not do anything suspicious, or try to escape, or do something that will hurt my kingdom. My guard, I believe, has taken some pity on me. Not a good thing, probably, but it's allowed for this package to be sent to you. It is not much, but it is the favorite crop I farm. We farm others. Coffee beans, avocados, bananas. You trade with us. You know. I'm rotated around depending on which plantation needs more hands.

The soil is from the aisle of trees I planted. I am sure it has dried out from the journey to reach you.

But these are both superficial. I don't believe it will erase your skepticism. So I will give you this opportunity. Write to my mother. Ask her why she walks with a cane in her left hand.

I am sure she will be suspicious at first, considering I don't believe you two have ever been in the same vicinity for you witness or know. She will say that it was from a horseback riding incident. A sharp turn, and she slipped out of the saddle, breaking her femur.

The real reason was due to my birth. Thirteen pregnancies, believe it or not, can take a very major toll on a woman's body. She had natural childbirths for all of us, but it took her a longer time to recover after me. A nerve had been entrapped while she went into labor. It had caused temporary paralysis during the days after I was born. The physicians told my parents it would go away after a few weeks, months at the longest. Her sensation and strength would come back. Some of it did but not all. She's never been the same.

She won't admit to it in the first letter. See how she responds when you tell her you know the true reason. Then, ask—ask them if I'm in the basement and on the fields. I don't think they'll deny you the truth after that.

I've read your first letter more than a dozen times, Elsa. And now, I will go back and read it again.

Yours,

Hans


	13. Chapter 13

Dear Prince Hans,

Consider me surprised to find a box that contained oranges and soil. I'll have you know we tested them for any poisonous substance before we ate them. So, yes, you were right that it didn't abolish my skepticism. I will say they were delicious, and I understand why they are favorites of yours.

I have sent a letter to your mother. You are right in the fact that I have never met her, spoken with her, or have seen her in person. If she answers how you say, I may consider your words. However, I have also thought on finally meeting this family of Westergaards. Seeing is believing, is it not?

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa

* * *

Elsa,

The thought of you visiting my family gives me pause. I'm not sure why the thought strikes me this way—I've thought it could be due to the fact that you, the subject of my imprisonment and punishments, would be so near, when these letters have begun to feel like part of an alternate universe.

Thinking longer on it, I believe that it is the thought that you may actually…well, would you visit me, too? I don't think my family would allow it. Honestly, I don't think they would acknowledge that I still live in the castle. If you were to somehow convince my family to see me, ~~I don't think~~ … … What I mean to write is, I wonder if I will have the courage to stand before you. I'm almost certain I'm a coward. **I** ~~don't know if you remember this, but~~ — It's been almost a year since I've seen you. I think a single glance from you would freeze me. Probably physically, but also in every other way, even if you don't use your powers. I don't think I can make eye contact with you after…these letters. ~~I don't think I'm~~

But if that will be what is needed to abolish your skepticism, then please. Visit.

Yours,

Hans


	14. Chapter 14

Dear Hans,

Your mother answered me. She answered me twice. She answered as you said, but also…more. I am still…considering. Considering both her words and yours, and the potential for a visitation.

Your last letter is almost illegible. Does the thought of me coming to visit truly affect you so much?

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa

* * *

Elsa,

Yes. Yes, it does affect me. It's been so easy to think of you as someone who doesn't truly exist in my world any longer. As if these letters are thrown into the ocean, with a voice of reason writing back to me.

Halfway through each letter, I remember who you are and how significant each word I etch might be. But then I brush them away, because if I think like that throughout each letter, I'd never send them. And what does it really matter? It doesn't mean anything. None of this means anything.

My mother was the only avenue I could give you to solidify any potential for trust. So, please, consider what she answered, whatever it is that she said.

Yours,

Hans

P.S. I've heard rumor going around that the Queen of Arendelle has been with a few suitors. Humor me. Are these sniveling Kings or Princes worth any ounce of your time?


	15. Chapter 15

Dear Hans,

You imagine me as a disembodied voice that answers you from the depths of the ocean? Charming.

Your mother painted quite a vivid picture of you. Do you care to know what it looks like? I am still considering it, versus the picture you've painted of yourself in each of the words you _etch._

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa

P.S. Those rumors that have reached you are true. A few of them are very desperate to forge an alliance with Arendelle's Queen. They kiss my hand, and they promise bountiful ideas of love and peace. They wonder about my powers, some with eager fascination, some with admiration, some with the greed you've let me experience so intimately. Are they worth my time? Unfortunately, I must spend _my_ time in order to gauge the worth of _theirs._

* * *

Elsa,

Find someone to court who has no idea about your powers. Some far away land and some oblivious Prince. All of the other ones, I can assure you, are greedy bastards, but only some are dumb enough to give themselves away. You know to be wary, and to not allow your trust to be taken so soon, but…be wary.

Her picture of me can be no worse than any images I can conjure on my own. But it only makes me wonder—what does your picture look like, Elsa?

Yours,

Hans


	16. Chapter 16

Dear Hans,

Funny that you of all people warn me to be wary of my suitors. Only fitting, as well.

You may be surprised by what your mother said, Hans. Her words were not as harsh or demeaning as I think you believe they might be. They sounded regretful, and pained, but very careful. She was careful not to paint you as a monster, but as a misguided boy who might have been a gentleman if given a chance to be one.

Do you agree?

I cannot answer your question about my picture of you, as it seems to still be a work in progress.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa

* * *

Elsa,

Will you send me a wedding invitation, when the time comes? That would be funny. Quite funny. It can be a joke between us, if nothing else.

Well, that is nice of her, isn't it? It also shines a good light on her own character. Trust me, Elsa, the fruit doesn't fall very far from the tree. My mother is a beautiful woman, and I marred her physical appearance, her pride, her ego more than anyone else would dare. She plays with words just as well as any other Westergaard.

Misguided. Who _might_ have been a gentleman. Sure. Yes. Seems about right.

A work in progress. That's generous. I'll take that.

Hans


	17. Chapter 17

Dear Hans,

You may be waiting forever for that wedding invitation. Are all men such _creeps?_ I think my sister found the only decent man in the world.

Be that as it may about your mother, but her words…rang true. It is difficult to describe. She doesn't know me at all, and yet how she wrote… It seems as if she and I know a similar Prince Hans Westergaard.

Queen Elsa

* * *

Elsa,

A bit harsh on the opposite sex, but I won't deny most of us are complete idiots. Have they at least treated you to proper dinners or long walks along rivers or beaches? Boat rides? Tours of their respective countries?

I fear that your last paragraph sounds ominous to me. Mother knows best, and that's…alarming.

She came to visit me. It's been about six months since I've seen her. As severe as always, but I think it was due to your correspondence that she took time out of her busy day to see how I was faring. I'm not sure how this makes me feel, but I'll admit that the whole visit was a bit unsettling. Neither of us knew how to talk to one another. Thanks a lot for that, Elsa.

Hans


	18. Chapter 18

Dear Hans,

They have all been…fine. Not bad, but not good. Just… _fine._ Perhaps that's the problem. I look at Anna and Kristoff, and I wonder if I'll ever light up as they do. There is a peace to them when they are together, yet a fantastic energy that emanates whenever they are near one another. Their glances across the room are palpable. I've yet to even get to a point where I want to be stuck on a boat with my suitors for longer than half an hour. Courting is…difficult.

Have you been isolated for so long that you've forgotten proper conversational etiquette? Your letters seem alright. You can't blame me for being awkward around your own mother, who I think may even care about you just a _little_ bit.

Queen Elsa

* * *

Elsa,

Courting has never been a challenge for me, until I ruined my name. I haven't talked to a woman since the Arendelle fiasco. Excluding my mother. I'm sure I've lost all possible charm. Maybe I've even lost my smarminess. Wouldn't that be something?

It will never be love at first sight. Or date. Or even several dates. Most aren't ambitious enough to put up a front for longer than a year. If they vie for power, they will slip up soon enough if you know where to look. And I trust that you do.

How is the skepticism going, by the way? Are you still unsure about our correspondence? Has any of this helped you determine whether or not to trust me?

My mother, caring. Ha. Thanks for the laugh.

Hans


	19. Chapter 19

Dear Hans,

I'm serious! I do believe your mother cares for you. She doesn't make it obvious, but it seems to me that she never has.

You, rid of the smarminess and charm? I had to look out my window to see if there was a meteor hurtling toward earth. Or pigs flying across the horizon. Is this still Hans?

I'm skeptical about everything these days, but… I can't deny the insights I've gotten from the correspondence with your mother, or the answers I have gathered.

I always look forward to the reprieve these letters bring. I'm never too exhausted to respond.

Queen Elsa

* * *

Dear Elsa,

If the pigs haven't flown yet, then that probably means I still believe I can be charming. I think I even still have a thread of pride holding me up.

I am a bit uneasy when you say "correspondence" with my mother. You are still sending letters to one another? I'm not sure what that means.

Are you still thinking about visiting?

Hans


	20. Chapter 20

Hans,

Would you believe me if I told you I'm afraid to visit? Not because of your family, but…because of _you_? These letters are a nice disguise. I don't think of you as the Hans-who-almost-killed-my-sister-and-I. You are almost a stranger. As you imagine me as a disembodied voice from the ocean, I imagine you as someone I've chanced upon accidentally.

I don't truly know you, but I'm beginning to think I might. It's a terrible juxtaposition. I think of you now as two sides of a coin—one darkened and full of greed. The other…the opposite. Lighter. More understandable.

Your mother and I are still sending one another letters, but that is all I will say.

Queen Elsa

* * *

Dear Elsa,

Perhaps the other side of my coin is that misguided boy who might be a gentleman. It is nice to know someone thinks that of me—besides my mother, if that is truly what she believes.

Yes, I'd believe you about being afraid of me. I'd believe you because I'm not afraid of you visiting. I'm absolutely _terrified._

Hans


	21. Chapter 21

Dear Elsa,

I hope this letter finds you well. I haven't heard back from you in more than a fortnight, and I think I've become so conditioned by your letters arriving every ten to fourteen days that I find myself writing another letter to you on this fourteenth night. I will wait another few days before I send this off, but it seems I can't help myself in writing it.

If my last letter struck you as offensive or untoward, I apologize. That was not my intention. I didn't mean to hint at or suggest anything more than what I felt.

If you want to discontinue this correspondence, the only thing I ask of you is to give me some semblance of warning before you stop entirely.

Yours,

Hans


	22. Chapter 22

Dear Prince Hans-icidal Maniac Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

Can you _**PLEASE**_ stop writing to my sister, _**QUEEN**_ Elsa of Arendelle? If seems you've forgotten who you've been writing to, and I have taken the responsibility to stop these letters that have been happening between you two for over a _**YEAR?!**_

You will not bother her any longer. Do you know how much these letters have been ruining her life _? Do you?_ They've made her question EVERYTHING! You will never fool her, and you will never fool me. You will _NEVER_ be forgiven from our family. _**NEVER!**_ Stop trying! Stop being a weirdo and a creep! You have a frozen heart and you always will and we will always hate you.

Stay in your basement-cell-whatever for the rest of eternity!

BYE.

Princess Anna of Arendelle, Your Worst Nightmare


	23. Chapter 23

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

Look, message received from your sister. I didn't mean any harm—well, I did once, but not anymore. I hope you know that, at least. If you take away anything from this, please, I beg of you. Know that one thing to be true.

I didn't mean to upset you. If you wanted me to stop writing to you, I would have. I will.

I'm sorry.

Yours truly,

Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles

P.S. As you said before, you must spend your time to gauge the worth of others. You've spent so much of your time, this past…what? Year and a quarter? Writing to me. Spending valuable time gauging mine. If this is to be the last letter I write you, you must know that I save all of the ones you sent me before. I read the past ones when I lack my _flowery_ hope. The words help steady me. They remind me to try, because I want to try. The frost from those letters is gone, but if I pause long enough, and imagine it, I can still feel the chill of you in the parchment.

I hardly believed I would ever say this, but… Thank you, Queen Elsa of Arendelle, for writing that first letter. For opening mine. And for every letter thereafter.


	24. Chapter 24

Hans,

I'm visiting. I may even be there before you receive this.

Elsa


	25. Chapter 25

Elsa,

I saw you. I saw you across the fields. At first, I thought it was my imagination again. I thought you were some kind of mirage. The heat is atrocious at this time of year, sweltering and humid, and I truly believed I was having a stroke.

I took three steps forward when you vanished. You were an apparition after all. I know you said you would visit, but you must know that I don't hold you to that. Even if you visited, I didn't expect you to visit me. I don't hold you to anything. I just—it's been hard, not writing to you. I hadn't realized how much I relied on the constancy of your words—and that is unfair to you. I don't mean for my words to make you feel guilty, I merely…want to tell you how I feel, because I can't tell anyone else.

I miss the letters. There. I admit it. I never should have told you to write to my mother. She always tends to ruin everything. Or, I guess I tend to ruin everything and then blame anyone who is near enough to blame, before I admit to it being solely my fault in the first place.

I don't think I'll ever send this to you. There is no reason for me to send it. It's out of my selfish need to write to you. Perhaps I _will_ make this a journal instead. I'll bind the pages together, shove it in an unused drawer of my desk. I just…need an outlet, because my skin crawls, and I feel like I'm losing my mind half the time, and if I don't write something down, I think I'll implode.

I hope you're well. Not knowing is…strange.

H


	26. Chapter 26

Dear Hans,

You thought you saw me because you did. It turns out you are not the coward. I am.

Will you understand if I tell you that I was hoping, desperately, for you to be freely roaming the castle, with a smirk on your face, a royal crest across your chest, boots shining, hair immaculate and clean? I desperately hoped for you to have been lying to me this whole time. I want so badly to continue to hate you. To let life move on and forget you as a human being. To always remember what you did, but to forget _you._ That's why my sister wrote you her letter. I'd…been hiding our communication from her. I didn't want her to know, because I knew exactly how she'd react. She's as protective of me as I am of her. I can't fault her for it. I should not have hidden it from her.

I didn't know she sent a letter until after it was done, and she hid your letter from me that came in the mail on the one day I was busier than usual. I tend to gather the mail before she wakes. The one time she beat me to it was on a day that was unusual to receive one from you. We've talked over it all, and though we may still not see eye to eye on things, I have explained things to her in the best way I knew how.

So, I made up my mind to visit. Your mother showed me the basement where you stay. I saw the wooden desk where you write your letters to me. I smelled the must you once told me about, and I saw the rocks that hang above you as you sleep.

Then I saw you, in the fields, laboring away and plowing the grounds. You must have felt my stare, because you paused, and you turned, and you looked up. You went still. There was a moment where I thought you would disappear, too. Then you began to walk toward me, and everything in me willed me to run. So I did.

I fear my skepticism is gone, now, Hans.

You said you weren't going to send your letter, but I'm glad you did, anyway. It, if nothing else, forced me to respond. Just as I should have responded to you weeks ago.

I am doing as well as I can be. How are you?

Elsa

* * *

Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

You aren't a coward. I haven't bathed in about a week, and I know my odor is astringent. That would have made me run away, too.

I am happy to know that you weren't a figment of my imagination that day. Each day since, I've looked up to that exact same spot, wondering. Almost expecting to see your figure there. You aren't a ghost. I don't know why I keep expecting you to reappear like one.

You saw my room? Had I known I'd have a visitor, I would have cleaned up. The place is a little shabby these days.

If it gives you any assurance, I do understand. Wanting to hate, or forget, or move on. All those things combined. I am sorry to have disappointed you, but I also realize I may have risen above your expectations for once. I should be proud of that, shouldn't I? I find that I'm not.

I know you love your sister. I hope this situation did not cause a large rift between you two.

I actually never sent the letter. I'm as surprised as you. I think I fell asleep right after I finished it, and my guard believed it to be ready to deliver. That's what usually happens, except I hand it to him. He should know better, but it's been such a long time doing the only errand for me. I can't fault him for thinking it was like any other missive.

I'd forgotten what it was like, to have your letter waiting for me atop my desk. Does this mean we'll have continued correspondence? I don't mean to sound too hopeful, but… oh, hell. I am. I would like to continue if you do.

I'm glad you are doing well. I'm fine. Every day has marched along with the same monotony. I can't complain.

Hans

P.S. What was it that was the deciding factor to visit? I know it wasn't easy.


	27. Chapter 27

Dear Hans,

Hah! I actually laughed out loud. Thanks for the jokes. I'm sure you smelled terrible, and your room was a bit of a mess, but you know those aren't the reasons for why I ran away from you. It's nice of you not to agree with me, but I think we both know the truth.

Do you want me to reappear?

Good thing you have such an attentive guard. Next time, write DO NOT SEND on the top of the letter. Maybe that will give him pause.

Monotony, huh? I guess being a prisoner doesn't give much time for hobbies or fun.

Don't blame your mother. She was an essential factor. I believe Arendelle and the Southern Isles are going to expand their trade. If anything, you should thank her, not blame her.

And, Hans, you can continue to call me Elsa. You've reverted back to formalities. It seems very unlike you. Are you ill again?

Elsa

P.S. That last letter you sent before I decided to visit. You said you would stop writing me if I told you that's what I wanted. You would _do_ something for me. I knew then.

* * *

Dear Elsa,

Forgive me. Not sending you a letter for a month would mean that I should…I don't know. Show some sign of respect? I guess that's funny, given everything else we've written. I didn't care so much about respect before I saw you. You're right. Perhaps I am ill. But you're not a coward.

Thank my mother? Not in a million years, not even for you. Well, maybe for you. It's complicated.

I'll write DO NOT SEND on any letter I deem embarrassing and unreadable in the future. Thanks for the input. I'd rather not make more of an idiot of myself.

No, imprisonment doesn't give ample time for extracurriculars, writing letters to a Queen notwithstanding. You're my only hobby at the moment.

How are the Queenly duties? Exhausting as ever?

To be frank, yes, I want you to reappear. Reappear anytime you would like, but I'll warn you. I probably _will_ have a stroke.

Hans


	28. Chapter 28

Hans,

We are delegating a trade agreement in the next six weeks. I think I will plan to make a trip there. What say you? I don't want to provoke a stroke, so I thought a warning would suffice. I won't run away.

What types of things are written in letters that would qualify for a DO NOT SEND label? Surely you couldn't embarrass yourself any more than you already have.

I've never been called a hobby, before. That's nicer than what some other Princes have called me.

Queenly duties are as ever boring, unavoidable, and time consuming. I've put courtship on hold for now, because that is what's truly exhausting. I could delegate and converse with political members all day, but conversing with men who are interested in _me?_ No, thank you.

Elsa

* * *

Elsa,

The things that would qualify for DO NOT SEND are the obvious things I would never send to you. Like telling you how eternally grateful I am that you've decided to trust me, or to continue writing letters to me when you have a thousand other more important things to waste your time on, blah blah. You know, the nice things that are very out of character for me, or the things that would make you suspicious of me again _because_ they're out of character.

Really? You'd take politics over talking to a boy about yourself? Well, I guess I can't blame you. Politics and courting are both about bullshitting, but with courting you're bullshitting with someone you may have to marry. What have these Princes called you? I can't imagine they'd call you anything less than a lady of your station. If they have, they truly are idiotic bastards.

Six weeks from the last letter, so about four when I send off this letter, and about two when it arrives to you. Since we are so close to the time, I'll tell you that I'm looking forward to it. I'll be wearing nothing princely, which I don't think you'll mind. I'll try to bathe, but no promises. I can't tell you how I'll greet you. I'll probably do something…inadequate. A forewarning.

Hans


	29. Chapter 29

Hans,

I may arrive before you receive this, so I will keep it brief. I won't mind if you smell. Act as you normally would. I want to meet the Prince Hans of these letters, not a mask with a smile.

Elsa


	30. PART TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This second part is not made up of solely of letters (though, those will continue here and there), and is actually made up of more "normal" storytelling. Hopefully you enjoy the change of style! Also, I can't apologize for the sticky sap that may or may not be contained in these chapters.

Hans knows the moment Elsa arrives onto the plantation, because it's the same sensation he felt the first time. A slight breeze weaves through the open plains, and it is as chilly as though winter is upon them. It's spring. He's on tomatoes, which means he's hunched over most of the day. The chill on his back raises the hair on his skin, damp from the midday sun. He takes a sharp inhale and turns, looking up.

Elsa stands twenty feet away from him along a gentle upslope of land. She is so much closer than last time. He can see the distinct shape of her eyes, the loosened hair that rebels against her braid. He goes to stand and nearly stumbles on thin air. Her hands are clasped in front of her, resting on her hip, and she looks very queenly, indeed. The two years since he's truly seen her have brought about a maturity in the line of her mouth, her stature, the strength of her spine.

He feels the sudden rush of weight the past year has placed on him. He does not stand as tall as she. His shoulders are stooped, and he goes to straighten them, to mimic her. He's at least a head taller, but he feels two heads shorter.

He pulls on the thread of pride that is still attached to his chest, and he uses it to feign the confidence he once held in spades. He makes his way toward her, his steps amplified by the chains dangling from his wrists. They tap his thighs with each step.

When he is five feet from her, he swallows. She is a cloud in a sea of sky. Her hair absorbs all the color of sunshine.

His legs weaken. He drops to a kneel carefully, bowing his head and greeting her. "Your Majesty."

"Prince Hans," she says, and he stiffens. "You don't have to kneel. Please, rise. And where on earth is your shirt?"

Her words jar him. He's so used to working without proper clothing that he had forgotten he didn't have his work shirt. His mouth turns up, and he looks at her as he pushes up on his feet.

"Ah, forgive me, Your Majesty. It's in the shed." He points a shackled hand in its general direction, but he continues staring at her.

Like a _creep._

He averts his eyes at the thought, only for them to be drawn back up to her face like a magnet.

She continues to stare at him, as well, but her eyes don't soften. They are guarded, and he is glad of it. The blue of her eyes are icy and defiant and unperturbed. Have they always been so expressive?

"Do you always greet Queens without a shirt?" she asks.

He blinks. "I've never had a Queen visit…ah." At her pointed look, he finally gets what she means. "Right. Let me…get my…shirt."

She smirks a little.

_Oof._ It's a smack to his eyeballs. He tries to think what his old self would do—smile charmingly? Be adorably oblivious? No, none of that seems right when she smirks like that. He merely sighs and makes his way to the shed.

When he grabs his shirt, he realizes he can't put it on due to his shackles. Huh. He's become a certifiable idiot just by her _presence._ His face heats up with embarrassment. She must be laughing at him as he stands there in the shed, unsure of what to do.

He _thunks_ his head against the wooden slats of the shed before he slings his shirt over his shoulder like a towel. Whatever. She can deal with his half-nakedness. It's not like she hasn't seen it before…probably. What with all her suitors, she's surely seen…well, if none were worth her time, she unquestionably never allowed…but then if not, that would mean…

He flushes again. It isn't his fault. He didn't know she'd arrive on this day. She never specified. If anything, it was her fault—but not really.

He opens the door and nearly jumps out of his skin when she's right outside.

She smiles at him, holding up a frosty key in her finger.

"I meant to tell you. I snagged the key from Julian—your guard. He said you'd probably need it," she says.

Julian gave her a key? He looks at Elsa again. He can't blame Julian. He'd probably give her keys to a prisoner's shackles, too, if she asked nicely.

He's such a sucker.

"Good thing. I was about to tell you you were going to have to suffer looking at me shirtless," he blurts, surprising himself.

She's so fair in complexion, he can see a slight pinkness decorate the bridge of her nose. He raises an eyebrow as he takes the key from her, trying to smother the small thrill that runs through him. Maybe she's affected after all. Maybe he _is_ the first male she's seen topless.

He makes quick work of the shackles and pushes his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. It's immediately stifling, but it seems as though Elsa makes everything in her near vicinity twenty degrees lower in temperature, as if he's standing in perpetual shade. It's a relief.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome," she answers.

They stare at one another. Hans is the first to break the eye contact, clearing his throat and glancing off to the rows of tomatoes.

"You're fine with me…without shackles? Because I can put them on again, if you'd like."

She ponders his question for a moment, her eyes roving over him, dissecting him. Finally, she states, "You may keep them off. It will make the work easier."

He tries not to be surprised, but he can't help staring at her again. He comes marginally back to his senses, easing a step away from her, to keep a respectable distance. He glances off to the side to see her guards watching them along the dirt road beside her carriage, but he knows Elsa could drop him in a flick of a wrist if she wanted.

"My shift usually lasts until the end of the day…" he starts, unsure of what he's about to tell her. "I could, uh, show you around, if you'd like? It's a bit…I mean, there's not a lot to see, but…"

"I would like that," Elsa says. "I've already met with your family this morning about the trade agreements, and the plantation owners are aware of my presence here. I have nothing else I need to be doing, today."

"Oh," Hans says. "Really? How'd the trade agreements go?"

"Just fine. We'd been corresponding about it before, so the meeting was really just about hammering out details, costs, exporting timelines, that sort of thing."

"That's…great. I didn't realize…" _I'd get to spend an entire day with you._

"What is it?" she asks, then pauses. Her eyes widen a little, and it's the first time she seems the tiniest bit vulnerable since her arrival. "Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed it would be okay if I found you and…"

"No, no," he says quickly. "It is! Okay, I mean. Actually, it's more than okay, I just didn't know—I…" he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't know I'd get so much time with you, is all." He looks off to the seemingly unending amounts of farmland. "It's not exactly a long walk on a beach, but…if you don't mind, then…"

When he glances back to her, she's smiling at him. That's it. He's going to have a stroke.

"That sounds perfect," she says. "Show me what you do. Take me to all the fields you work."

He begins nodding. "Sure. We'll start with the uh, the tomatoes."

He does as she asks. He shows her the rows of tomatoes that he's scheduled to work on that day, along with a few other laborers in the field. Some of them send glances their way, curious with lingering eyes and side glances, but not one stops to say a word. They act as they always have, and they may or may not notice a member of royalty in their midst while the plantation owners survey the workers with unending observation.

A lot of the fruit are ripe, so they go down the rows to pick the ones that are ready, then place them in a shipping bin on the opposite end of the field. He shows her to the bananas, the coffee beans, guava, and papayas, relaying to her what he's learned and the techniques they use on the Isles. She listens attentively, asks questions, and even tries out some of the equipment. He has to readjust her positioning a few times, and he tries not to let his hands linger on her arms or shoulders.

It's easy this way, talking about the fruits of his labor, basking in her presence and her ceaseless questions about the land. It is easy to avoid talking about the more difficult things, the more obvious things, the questions lingering between them from the letters. Hans has so many questions for her that bubble up in his mind. _Why are you truly here?_

_Is the skepticism truly gone?_

_Do you still hate me?_

_Could you ever forgive me?_

_Were my letters ruining your life, as Princess Anna had said?_

_Or do you feel as I do, standing beside me?_

They all feel impossible to ask in the bright and unforgiving sunlight, here in the fields along the row of crops, far, far away from the real world outside the Isle, and Hans does his best to simply enjoy the reprieve her coolness brings.

By the time they reach the end of the papayas, Elsa says, "Prince Hans…may I call you Hans?"

The question makes the hair rise up his spine. "Does it denote disrespect or familiarity?"

At this, he pulls a smile out of her. They aren't as hard to draw out as he previously thought they might be.

"Familiarity," she answers.

"I would have said yes even if it was disrespect."

She chuckles. "I'll remember that next time. And please, call me Elsa. You do in the letters. You did before I even allowed it."

_That's different._ But it's not really different at all.

Still, he says, "Are you certain that's a good idea? In public, if others hear me call you by your name…"

She frowns at him. "What does it matter what others hear or think? We are two royals speaking candidly to one another."

She called him a royal. It doesn't go unnoticed by him, and it raises his spirit a little. He slowly nods. "Alright…Elsa."

It feels nice saying it out loud instead of only in his mind. She glances at him as he says it.

"Your hair is long," she says.

_Ah, yes. That_. It's shaggy and unkempt, disheveled and sweaty. He smiles crookedly. "It's been a few months since I've had a proper haircut. Very un-princely, I know."

"Hm," she hums contemplatively. She reaches a hand and swipes a few bangs off his forehead. He nearly jerks and topples over. She doesn't seem to notice. "It's not bad. You wear it well."

He tries to recover. "I wear everything well."

"Oh, really?"

"Even nothing, as you previously experienced."

"Just because you were tanned and sweaty doesn't mean it was appealing, Hans."

"Ouch. And I thought my body was the last attraction I had."

"I wouldn't say last. Maybe one of few, but not last."

"Good to know at least a few qualities interest you."

She remains quiet for a while, and Hans regrets saying it. He feels the weight of silence like a wet blanket.

"Sorry," he says softly. "I don't mean to be suggestive."

"Don't be, and you weren't," she says. "I was just thinking…are you sure you haven't talked to any women in two years? Because it seems to me you are fluent in flirting."

"I think it's the company," he answers, genuinely. "You bring out the best in me, along with the worst. I guess, in this case, my best and worst are mutually exclusive."

The sun is beginning to set. It's almost time for him to be going back to the castle. He glances over to her, and _there_. He sees the softness in her face for a moment, as if she's battling what she allows herself to show on her face. The softness is so fleeting, but he saw it, and he'll remember it like a brand on his skin. His hand has a mind of its own, and he reaches up to touch her face. Halfway through the motion, he realizes what he's doing. He pauses, curls his fingers into a fist, and lowers it behind his back. She watches the descent of his hand, and he tries to cover his mistake by gesturing to the horizon instead.

"It will be dark, soon. We should head back to the castle. A wagon picks me up at the end of the field along the road. Would you like to join me, or would you like to take your own method of transportation?"

"No. I'll ride with you."

He nods, escorting her to the pickup point.

"Thank you," she says, once they are inside the wagon. Julian mans the horses, and Hans sees Elsa's own company of guards riding alongside them.

"For what?"

"Showing me what you do," she says. "I had no knowledge about the true work of farming before today. It was very enlightening."

"I'm…glad you enjoyed it, Elsa."

They look at each other across the length of the coach. These spaces are always so small. Hans doesn't mind in the slightest, but her eyes are intense under the lowlight of the sunset. It makes him imagine her eyes reflecting candlelight across a table, a dim room, leaning forward to ask him a question. He could stare at her for the whole ride—which is not very proper. He shifts and turns his head to watch the hills pass, distracted by the soft coolness of the coach, and desperately attempting to fix his neck in this position so as not to look at her.

It doesn't work. The few times he glances at her, she's looking at him. She seems to be searching, calculating, puzzling something out. She's measuring him up. He's almost positive of that. What she's trying to find, he doesn't have the slightest clue. He's not sure he wants to know, because he'll fail at it—he won't have it, whatever it is, and he already tastes the iron tang of disappointment creeping onto his tongue.

With that thought in mind, he asks, "What are you thinking, Elsa?"

She doesn't seem flustered at the question. She ponders it instead, still with the same calculating stare in her eyes. "I'm thinking about how I saw you before, and how I see you now."

"And? What do you see?"

His palms begin sweating, even against the coolness she allows. They feel clammy.

"I see a man who isn't desperate for power, but who is desperate for freedom," she says.

He swallows. It sounds so loud, though no one but him can hear it over the wheels of the coach and the pounding hooves of horses.

"You can see all of that?" he asks.

"I don't know if you realize, but you wear a lot on your sleeve, Hans."

His eyes glance down to his shirt sleeve, as if he'll see emotions written there. "I didn't."

"You were a good actor, once, when you wanted to be. Now, I don't think you care so much about hiding."

She is digging right through him, a dagger plunging into his stomach. "No…no, I don't think so."

"It's easy to read it in your letters, but it's always different in person. My missives to other Dukes and Princes are always forgotten when I meet with them in person. But with you, it's not. It hasn't been this entire day. I hear your voice as if you're writing one of those letters."

He runs a hand through his hair. He feels the prickly run of embarrassment making itself known along his neck again.

"That's…a good thing, right?"

Elsa smiles. "Yes. A very good thing."

He watches her for a few moments, committing her smile to memory.

"Do many of your suitors write you letters?"

She seems caught off guard by the question, her smile fading. He replays it back quickly in his head and backpedals.

"I mean—not that I'm—I was just wondering if they did. Or are still. I know you said you were taking a break, but sometimes they are persistent."

She shakes her head. "A few have, but only to let me know of their visiting Arendelle. They were more of courtesies than anything." She pauses. "Are you saying that you're attempting to court me, Hans?"

His eyes fly wide. "No! No, I mean—

_Yes, I would like to court you, Elsa, and how much more ridiculous could that be?_

"—I'm trying to refrain from being audacious. I'm not going to waste your time."

_I'd love to waste your time, if you'd let me._

His outburst seems to whittle her. She shifts to sit back in her seat. Her posture is immaculate.

"I wouldn't attempt that, Elsa," he continues, clearing his throat. "I'm a prisoner, and I highly doubt you'd appreciate the advances of someone who made an attempt on your life," he says. "I'm hardly a Prince, anymore. I have nothing to offer you that you wouldn't receive from any of the other suitors who have given you attentions."

_I have nothing._

That is true. He's pondered it before. Had he wanted to marry, then—what? What could he give? His personality? His shackles? A few inches of his bed pallet? Not to mention his future execution, but he doesn't care to think of that.

"Yes," she says slowly, after a long, tense minute. "Yes, you are right."

He is equally relieved and deflated at her answer. This was such a terrible idea to have her visit. The embers underneath his skin aren't only smoldering with her proximity. They're bursting into flame. He's done it to himself—unknowingly, sure. But he should have known. He should have known how much he—how much he wanted. How much he knew he couldn't have. Now, here he is, unable to stop staring like a fool, because he had forgotten how beautiful she was. What did he expect? For her to be abhorrent? Ugly? For her to douse his hopes with her ice? For him to realize that his affection was merely a passing fancy, only spurred on by ink and parchment?

It all makes him nervous, because it's beginning to feel like a flood, and that won't do at all.

They are quiet the rest of the way to the castle. When they disembark, they take his usual route to his basement room.

"We call it the "secret passage", but it's not a secret passage. We only call it that because we're the only ones who ever use it," Hans explains as they walk through a side door, with Julian in tow. "It's supposed to be a joke, but I guess it's not really funny."

"It is funny," Elsa says. "They've literally given you the route for your great escape."

Hans blinks at her, then he laughs a little. She laughs with him.

"The only bad part is that they'll know my route immediately."

"Or it could be a decoy route, and you can leave through the front door."

Hans smiles. "Maybe you're onto something."

When they reach the door to his room, he mentally procures the image of his room from that morning. Did he clean? Are there any clothes strewn on the floor? Does it matter?

No, he realizes. Their day together is done, and it went so very quickly.

"Well, ah," he begins. "Julian can take you upstairs to dinner. I'm not sure what my family's itinerary was for you, but they always accommodate their guests with the utmost care. Especially the Queen of Arendelle."

"Oh," she says, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I…assumed I'd be dining with you."

"I, uh," he starts, yet again, with incoherency. "You…want to?"

She looks at him, giving him a funny look. "Yes."

He nods, suddenly and violently anxious. "Right. Sure. Of course. Julian, I guess you—"

"Yes, sir, I am to fetch your dinners as soon as you are settled in your chambers," he says. Elsa's own personal guards are standing near the doors, ready to be posted as soon as Julian leaves. Hans is honestly not sure what they could do that Elsa couldn't.

"Your Majesty," one of her guards says. "Would you like me to keep post inside the prisoner's room with you?"

A sharp swelling of shame blooms in Hans stomach. It quickly dissipates as Elsa says, "No, thank you, Gerald. I will be fine on my own."

The guard reluctantly nods. "Let us know if you change your mind."

"Of course," she tells him. She turns to Hans. "Lead the way."

Hans begins to smile, glancing to the guard, who looks less than pleased. "Very well. Then, uh, come in, if you're comfortable," Hans says, opening the door. "I know you've seen it already, and I apologize for the mess in advance."

"You mean you didn't even try to clean up for me?" she says, but she's teasing.

"Had you told me the day you were coming, I would have been better prepared," he says, closing the door behind them. He hears the rattle of her guard's armor, a shadowed warning.

"That wouldn't have been fun. I wouldn't have been able to watch you be all flustered," she says, grinning.

So she has noticed that. Not that he thought she didn't, but…well, he hoped, anyway.

"You're such a tease, aren't you," he says, shaking his head.

She giggles, stepping toward the wall with the gated window. "It's actually not that bad in here. Still musty, but I don't see your underwear."

Hans pulls at his collar. "Is Queen Elsa talking openly about my _underwear_?"

"What?" she says. "We all have underwear!" She turns to look at him, grinning again when she sees his face. "I didn't think an innocent word like _underwear_ would affect you so much, Prince Hans."

" _Usually_ ," he says. "Usually I'm never affected by anything. But you're…different."

"I'm different? How?"

He frowns at her. Her eyes are all bulbous, and large, and innocent.

"Don't be coy, Queen Elsa. You know what I mean."

"I really don't. Can you explain?"

He sighs sharply. "You're different because you've…read my letters. Pretty much have seen my entire soul." He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

" _Oh_ , the _letters_. And your _soul._ My, I shouldn't joke about that, should I?"

He gives her a look. She smiles slightly then shakes her head.

"Okay, okay. I'll stop."

"Thank you."

"But your underwear _was_ strewn across the floor last time. I was nearly traumatized."

"So you _don't_ think of my underwear on occasion?"

Her jaw drops a little. "Hans—!"

He laughs. "Sorry. I wanted to see your reaction."

"Yeah, right. Stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine."

"I had to get back at you somehow."

"Uh-huh."

It's so effortless to do this with her. Hans swallows his smile and looks up through the gated window. From this angle, he can't see the ocean very well, but he can always hear it lap against the land.

"You said you can see the ocean, but anywhere I stand I can't get a glimpse," she says, walking forward to stand underneath it. "Do you have to stand on a stool? Because even at your desk, I can only see sky."

"Here," he says, standing behind her. "I can lift you up, then you can see."

He doesn't think about it much when he places his hands on her hips, but she curves out from underneath his hands.

"No," she says, hurriedly, rubbing at her hip. "It's fine, I can do it on my own."

An ice block rises from the ground, lifting her up just as a stool would. Hans steps away, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Of course," he says.

"Oh," she says softly. "There it is. I see it, now."

"Beautiful, isn't it? Under the moon."

"Yes. The fjord back home is lovely, but there's something about the ocean. The currents and the tides. It's much more alive."

He watches as she grips the bars in her hand, pushing her face between the spaces of them. She sighs.

"I can see why you daydream, looking out to the sea like this. You can even smell the salt when the breeze hits right."

His gaze follows the slender line of her back, from her neck to her bottom, where her legs are hidden by her dress. It's blue, yet it somehow feels more like a spring dress than her usual winter ensemble. It's gilded under the lantern light of his room. He lets himself commit this moment to memory, as well. How she looks, with the moonlight in her hair and the lantern against her back, taking up an abundance of space in his room.

She notices his reticence, because she turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her gentle smile fades.

"Hans, what's wrong?"

_Nothing. There's absolutely nothing wrong._

A daydream come to life.

"I was just wondering if you were going to get your head stuck between the bars," he says. "I was thinking about how I'd pull you out."

She rolls her eyes. "Ha-ha. My sister might do that, but not me."

She melts the ice beneath her, waving the puddle away with the flick of her wrist.

The mention of her sister immediately makes him think of a question, bubbling back up immediately in his mind.

"Your sister…what did she mean when she said I was ruining your life with the letters? I was too worried to ask outright before, and I was too happy once we began writing again, but…I've always wondered." He frowns, glancing up at the rock ceiling. "I thought she was being dramatic at first, but that was more to help me push away the thoughts that I truly might have been ruining your life again and had no idea."

It takes her a full minute to respond. She walks toward his desk, resting one finger along the top. A vein of ice follows along the trail of her fingertip as if it's a brushstroke. He absently wonders what it would feel like against his chest. Her frost gently cradling him in the spring heat. His imagination runs so freely with her so near, seeing her power in action, feeling her constant chill. He had forgotten the shape of her fractals, the shimmer left in their wake.

"My sister had only meant to protect me. She had noticed I had been acting…different. I think it was the culmination of our letters and all of the courting I had been going through. She believed me to be stressed. I thought I was fine, until—"

She stops, curling her lips under her teeth.

"Until?" he prompts.

She glances at him, still gnawing at her lips. "Until I—"

A knock at the door interrupts them. Hans realizes how tense he's become as he pushes off the wall to answer it, his shoulders up to his ears.

Julian enters with their dinners in tow. Hans offers her to sit at the desk while he takes his tray and sits on his bed.

"One of the perks of being a prisoner in the castle," he says, gesturing to the chicken on the plate. "They allow me to eat what the royals do, instead of gruel or slop. Less labor in the kitchens."

"Unlike how I think of most prisoners, you look…fuller," she says.

Hans pauses. "Probably the work outdoors. I used to practice sword fighting, but they'll no longer allow me to use one, and the outside labor is different." He glances at her and grins. "Well, you know, considering you saw me shirtless."

She gives him a glare, but it's contradicted by the red ribbon that crops up on the bridge of her nose.

"I see your arrogance hasn't completely left you."

He lifts one shoulder, shrugging. "It won't. It's an essential part of my _charming_ personality."

"Mm. I guess I can agree with that."

His stomach twinges. They finish their meals in a companionable silence. Hans thinks about broaching the topic before Julian had interrupted them, but deep down, he knows he isn't ready for her answer. By the look on her face, she wasn't ready to give it.

Once they give their empty trays to Julian, Elsa sits down at his desk again. She taps her fingers on the wood, right underneath an old ink stain that has darkened the grain.

"So, this is where you write your letters," she says softly. "After the last visit, it was so simple to imagine you here in the evenings, reading my letters and writing your own."

Watching her sit there is both unsettling and infinitely satisfying. Boundless thoughts and restless evenings are engraved in that desk. She had been on his mind the majority of the time while he sat there, pondering his words, wondering if it would be a good idea and half the time not caring if it was because he had nothing to lose. Never in all those letters he sent did he think she would ever be here out of her own volition.

"You said you've kept my letters. Where are they?" she asks him.

"Bottom drawer, on the left," he says, pointing. He thinks she'll open the drawer, but she doesn't. Instead, she watches him.

"What about the DO NOT SEND letters?"

"Bottom drawer, but on the—" he catches himself. She smirks at him, and he narrows his eyes at her.

"I see what you're doing," he says.

"Bottom drawer, on the…right, did you say?" She reaches for it, and he only just holds himself back from lunging.

"Wait! You really don't want to see those."

"You sound a bit panicked, Hans. Why is that?" She's teasing him, but her hand stops and rests on the drawer handle.

He swallows, chuckling nervously. "I really just, uh…those weren't ever to be read by anyone, and…"

"You realize you're just making me more curious?" she says, and he feels a cold line of sweat run down his spine. Her fingers curl over the drawer handle.

"Listen, how about you, uh…" he says and, unable to stay still any longer, darts from the bed and makes his way around to the right side of the desk. "Don't open it."

"After everything you've written to me, I doubt there's anything in here that would surprise me," she says. Her blue eyes glitter with challenge. He's close enough to her that his breath comes out in a soft plume of frost.

He hesitates before placing his hand on hers. "I think it might, and I'm not ready for you to see that yet."

She stills underneath his palm. If he squints, he can just see her skin bordered by fog, as if she is ice, softly sublimating in his heat. A sheen of water beads and crystalizes on the divots between his knuckles.

"What are you hiding, Hans?" she asks quietly, and her voice becomes hardened. "Have you written down all the ways you still want to kill me?"

Her words pull out a small smile from him.

"It would be much easier if I still wanted to kill you, Elsa."

It would be so much easier to explain a bulleted list of ways to behead her instead of what he's actually written.

He sees her throat bob in a silent swallow, and he thinks she might get his meaning. The tightness along her jaw softens, and the icy blue of her eyes are rimmed with a dark cerulean.

She slowly releases her fingers from the drawer, turning her hand over so that their palms touch. She doesn't look away from him. "Okay. I'll wait."

He exhales a deep breath. "Someday, I'll show them to you," he says. "Just…not yet. I think if I let you read them now, I wouldn't be able to look you in the eye for a while."

"Why? Is it because they would embarrass you?"

Just thinking about her reading the one he knows is on the top of the pile makes him want to catch fire. "Yes. I think it would kill me, not you."

"Oh," she says, her eyebrows raising. "Well, I don't want to do that, yet."

He smiles at that. " _Yet_."

She curls her fingers along his. He runs his thumb along the bends of her fingers.

A knock sounds at the door. Hans jerks his hand away from hers, standing and stepping away from the desk.

Julian peeks his head in. "Sir, it's nine o'clock."

_This evening is moving quickly._ "Right, of course."

He takes his place by the unlocked shackles that lay on the floor, welded to the wall. He bends down to clasp them on his ankles and reaches for the ones at shoulder height to clasp around his wrists.

"Is that really necessary for tonight?" Elsa asks, question directed to both of them.

"Pardon my candor, Your Majesty, but it is most especially necessary for tonight."

Elsa frowns at him, sighing.

"What Julian means to say is that they don't know what indecent or mischievous actions I may take with Her Royal Highness in my chambers. Isn't that right, Julian?"

Elsa blushes beautifully for him, and Julian clears his throat. "That is…one way to put it, yes."

"I see," Elsa says. "Once a liar…" she doesn't finish.

"That's right," Hans says. He walks over to his pallet and takes a seat, filling the space with jangling. Julian does a cursory check to make sure the shackles are secure. Once he does, he nods to Hans.

"Sir. Your Majesty. I will be back by midnight to take you to your guest chambers, Queen Elsa."

"Have a good evening, Julian."

"Thank you," Elsa says.

The door closes behind him, and they are once again alone. Hans relaxes against the wall behind him, extending his head until he's looking up to the ceiling.

"How long are you here for?" Hans asks. "You've already finished trade agreements with my family."

"I may go on a tour of the Isles tomorrow, but…I have not decided."

"If you don't, will you leave?"

Elsa shifts in the seat at the desk before pushing out of it. She comes to sit on the edge of his pallet, right beside his hip. She turns so they are facing each other.

"I'm…not sure about that, either. I probably will."

"It doesn't seem like you planned out this visit very well."

"Well, I didn't know if I'd even enjoy your company."

"Do you?"

He's been on his toes this entire visit, and he realizes this is why. Because she can bolt at any time. She can realize how little she cares for him, how the letters were only a mere break from reality but how the real life expectations don't match up, how they never will.

Doubt. Always doubt.

Then she smiles at him. It's as painful as a pit of spikes, this hope that she's giving him.

"Call me crazy," she says. "I do."

"Huh," he says, a smile creeping onto his face. "That's a first."

"Are you saying no one ever enjoyed your company?"

"Well, if they did, they'd never tell me," he says. He glances at her. "I never thought _Queen Elsa_ would say she enjoyed being around me."

"Neither did I," she says. She pauses, glancing up to the barred window. "You know, your mother told me she's never blamed you for her condition. I think she enjoyed your company, too, when she was able to have it."

Hans blinks and shakes his head. "I have a hard time believing something so fantastical, Elsa."

"Why is it so hard to believe? She told me you were only as difficult as any other child. She regrets not giving you more attention."

"If that was true, maybe she'd find the courage to tell me. Not you, someone who she barely knows," he says gruffly. "Sorry, I mean no offense."

She sighs. "Be that as it may, if she comes to visit you here again, give her a chance. Just as I gave _you_ a chance."

She emphasizes her words by poking his chest with her index finger. He catches it in his hand, and her palm unfurls against him.

_Her fingers trailing ice along his chest._

He's certain she can feel his heart thundering underneath his sternum. He closes his eyes. "You give me no room to argue," he says. "Fine. I'll try, but that's all I can promise."

She smiles triumphantly, her fingers curling into his shirt. He can feel her fingernails poke through the thin fabric to his skin. Goosebumps rise in her wake, and he hopes she doesn't notice.

"That's all I can ask," she says.

"I don't know what my mother said to convince you, but it does certainly seem like you've taken her side wherever I'm concerned."

She shrugs. "Maybe I'll show you the letters of our correspondence someday, like you'll show me yours, hidden in your desk drawer."

He is at once both curious and wary of the possibility of reading the words his mother wrote about him.

"Sounds as exciting as pulling teeth."

She rolls her eyes at him. "You are very dramatic."

"You would be, too, if you grew up with twelve brothers who hated your guts and a father who couldn't look down his nose at you."

"I met a few of your brothers. They didn't seem all _that_ bad."

"I assure you. They are. Also, you're a beautiful woman, so of course they'd be on their best behavior."

She simultaneously narrows her eyes and blushes. He smirks at her before she shakes her head at him.

"You know it's true," he continues. "Had you been a treasonous ogre like me, they wouldn't have given you the time of day."

"Well... _maybe,_ but I must keep an open mind. Your father seemed very respectable."

"He is King. He's had the role of regarding other Queens for quite a while. He's the one who has taught my brothers all they know about politics and, potentially, backstabbing."

She frowns. "I didn't feel that vibe from him."

"Ah, maybe that's only how I see him, then."

"Oh, Hans," she sighs, her eyes saddened. No one has given him such sincere empathy, so expressive and coalescing in a sheen of crystal ice. He's not sure what to do now that he has it, so he tries to smirk and shrug and brush it away.

"I've heard the saying, you always love to hate your family. I really connect with that."

She doesn't smile with him, and he feels as though he won't get away with jokes.

He shifts under the weight of her stare, and they devolve into a staring match with one another. Eventually, she asks, "Hans, could you be who I think you are? I fear I'm hoping for a man who may not exist, and yet…"

A line of sweat slips down his spine, turning cold and freezing into his skin.

"And yet?" he rasps.

"…I don't know," she says. "You don't remind me of the prince who tried to take my kingdom and kill my sister and I. I'm not…afraid of you."

He swallows, turning his head away and unable to look at her any longer.

"Maybe you should be afraid of me," he says. "Everyone else is."

She shakes her head slowly. "I told you I'm not skeptical of you anymore, in the letters. I wondered if seeing you in person, truly talking to you, would change my mind."

"Has it?"

She turns his head back toward her. She's too beautiful up close. Her eyes don't miss anything.

"I'm in your basement, sitting on your _bed_. What do you think?"

He wants to smile at that, but her proximity makes him too nervous. He's never been inclined to feel insecurity, but here he is, feeling like a piece of gum on her shoe.

"I…" he tries. "I don't…"

"When you said you went back to read the first letter I sent you, after I told you that I had laid it on my pillow...did you actually read it?"

She catches him off guard with the question. "Of course I did."

She takes a deep breath. Her hand continues to linger on his chest, under his hand. He can see a few glimmers of frost framing her face and dusting her braid.

"You made it hard, you know, to stop daydreaming," he says, taking a deep breath, gaining courage from her touch. "Like how we are, now. I've wondered...your hand on my chest, about to freeze me. Or all of the punishments you could possibly bring me, with how dangerous your ice is. I've told you before, but…I've imagined what it would be like for you to truly freeze my heart and what would happen. Would I die, or would nothing change because my heart was already frozen? Would you make me realize that my heart never beat at all, and I had just tricked myself into thinking it could?"

She edges closer to him, peering into his eyes.

"Do you still believe you're a monster, Hans?"

He smiles faintly. "Sometimes."

She shakes her head. "You're not. I've seen your heart, today. I can feel it in this room, all around us."

"You know what I mean, Elsa. Doubt and uncertainties linger every day. I look at your neck, and I think of how I almost tore through you, and I want you to freeze me," he says, pushing her palm deeply into the groove of his sternum. "I want you to send a shard of ice into me, or an icicle through my neck, because I don't deserve you here, with me, in this dirty, humid basement." Her eyes are all consuming, and he sighs. "Your neck is very beautiful, you know."

The frost around her magnifies. He wonders if it has anything to do with her emotions.

In a moment, her arms come around his neck, and she curls into him. It takes him a moment to realize she's hugging him.

"Elsa," he says, strangled.

"Oh, Hans," she says. "You can relax. It's okay."

She is a refreshing breeze in the midst of a swamp. He exhales, and his shoulders drop from his ears again. He slowly allows one of his arms to come around her back, the other tethered by the length of the shackle.

"Always know, in your doubts and uncertainties, that there is someone out there who believes in you," she tells him, her voice falling into his ear. "I believe in you."

He is frozen by her in a different way. Frozen, and drowning, and full. His heart throbs. The past wounds weep. Suddenly, like a snap of fingers.

"I..." he says, but he doesn't know what to say. They sit there embracing, and he thinks he could stay here forever, never letting go. Her kindness feels like stitches. He has never felt another person's affection like this before, with its overwhelming sincerity. It ruptures the scarring around his heart. It plunges him into an abyss.

Eventually, she pulls away, but she doesn't sit back very far. He lets his arms rest on her hip, and hers linger on his shoulders.

"Thanks," he says quietly.

She smiles in answer.

"So, uh," he starts, needing a change of subject. He grasps onto the first thing that comes to mind. "These suitors of yours..."

She groans, and her hands fall away from him. He takes his away, too. He regrets it, but it seems like the subject change did its job. The building tension he was feeling in his stomach decreases marginally with the lack of body contact.

"Suitors. Why do you want to talk about my suitors?"

"Just curious, is all. Did they hold your hand, or buy you flowers, or...I don't know. Anything."

Her lips fold in displeasure. "Sometimes hand holding was something a few tried, but it always felt like pulling teeth. Our hands would get sweaty, so I'd have to constantly chill them to dry. Most of the time, they'd ask me to show them my favorite "tricks". I'd make mini ice sculptures or an ice rink. Eventually, I started to feel like I was doing it just to get them to stop asking about it." She shakes her head. "They kept their formalities. They'd kiss my hand, bow, not cross any boundaries, but it was all very...staged."

"Courting at its finest."

She crinkles her nose. "Finest. Right."

"You never told me what they called you, besides a _hobby_."

She averts her eyes. "Oh, you know, the usual things."

"I don't think I know the usual things."

She huffs. "Well, everyone calls me the Ice Queen, but they also say I'm standoffish, cold, too critical." She glances at her hands. "I'm not as jovial as my sister, and I'm a bit too suspicious. I've been told this by my advisors, but it is hard to let my guard down."

Hans shakes his head. "They can't blame you for being suspicious. Do they even remember what went down two years ago, between us?" He scoffs. "That isn't a personality flaw, Elsa."

"Yes, well...it does seem that I let people down too often."

"You shouldn't settle for anything or anybody less than what you want. You're thinking about your country, too, Elsa. Your advisors shouldn't pressure you into relationships that aren't the best for you, or into the things you aren't comfortable."

She sighs. "I know. Anna says the same thing."

He almost wants to laugh at the thought of him and Princess Anna _agreeing_ on something.

"But after hearing the same things time and again..." Elsa trails.

"These Princes didn't tell you these things to your face, did they?"

Elsa looks embarrassed, her shoulders drawing back. "Not all of them, but some did when I...didn't reciprocate their advances."

Hans curls his lip. "They only say those things because their ego was insulted. They have to blame you instead of themselves."

Elsa watches him, and a small smile touches her face. "That sounds a bit familiar."

"That's right. I'm an expert," Hans says, half-joking, half-serious. "If they react like that, you know you made the right decision in letting them go."

"Yes. I think I agree with you."

Hans raises an eyebrow. "Really? You're agreeing with me?"

She gives him a look. "Don't let it go to your head. It's already big enough as it is."

Hans grins, blurting out the next thought that immediately crops up in his mind. "Did you ever kiss anyone?"

"Me?" she asks, her eyes widening.

He momentarily lapses, wondering if the question was a bad idea. "Yeah, you."

"No, I—" she pauses. "I never found myself wanting to kiss anyone."

A terrifying build of satisfaction houses itself inside of him.

"None interesting enough for Queen Elsa, huh?"

"No," she says. A light sprinkling of snow has begun to collect between them.

"Elsa, I..."

"Do you want to kiss me, Hans?" she asks. She leans forward carefully, and their noses nearly touch. "Do you think if you do, I'll freeze you?"

He swallows at her sudden closeness. His heart thuds in his ears. "Yes."

"Yes, you want to kiss me, or yes, I'll freeze you?"

The truth falls out of him. "Both."

The blanket on his bed pallet freezes. He's ensconced in winter.

"Elsa," he breathes. His skin thrums, his eyes wide. "You don't need permission to freeze me. You're a Queen. You can do anything you'd like. I'm no longer anyone."

He reaches up to touch her face, and she places her palm over his, holding it there. The winter of the sheets crawl up around him, onto the rock wall behind him, reaching up to his shoulders. His breathing is erratic, and she allows her forehead to rest on his own.

She sighs. "You're still someone to me, even if you are nobody to everyone else."

Her words are magnetizing, and they're so close. His lips brush against hers with only a shift of his head. Before he knows it, he's kissing her, and she's kissing him back. Her hands run behind his neck to his hair. She pulls him closer and closer, cold and warm, freezing and sweltering. He kisses her like his life depends on it, because it almost does, because he suddenly _knows_ what's happening to him, without a shadow of a doubt. He pulls her hips into his lap, he digs his fingers into the folds of her dress, he tastes the deep, coalescing swirl of frost that's embedded into her soul, the agonizing sweetness of her lips, the clashing warm wetness of her tongue. He loses himself to sensation until he feels as though his jaw seizes, and he is—actually—frozen.

"Oh, Hans, I'm sorry!"

His jaw melts, unlocking. He rubs at the joint and looks at her, bewildered.

"So you did freeze me," he says, but he begins to grin, and then he laughs.

She smiles, too, but she pushes at his shoulder. "It is not funny! I didn't mean to! I just...lost control for a second. I...that doesn't happen often. I've gotten so much better, but..."

"Are you saying I make you lose control, Elsa?" he asks. "Is that why it began snowing on the bedsheets?"

She blushes. "A little. Yes. But don't you dare give me that look!"

"Look? What look?"

"The look you have when you think you know everything. It's your arrogant look."

"Oh," he smirks. "You mean this one?"

"Hans—"

He can't come back from this. It's a fire and a flood that crackles inside of him, like a storm, like he's alive. He wants to be the one who makes her lose control. Calm, cool, collected Queen Elsa of Arendelle, undone by him, somehow and someway. And even if this doesn't matter—well, it's _because_ it doesn't matter that he allows himself to feel it, for this brief moment in his life.

He kisses her again, and again, and again, and he feels darts of ice surround him, border him, trickle out of her and into him, topping off his fullness. He may make her lose control, but she lords over him like the queen she is, and he thinks if he can give her something he's never given anyone, maybe…just _maybe_ she will accept it in this delicate bundle of time she's allowed herself to waste on him.

Her legs cradle each side of his hips. He's hot, then he's cold, burning then freezing, and it feels like an illness—a fever that won't break.

Her hands find the bottom lip of his shirt, and her hands crawl up his stomach. He jerks back from her, his skin popping with sensation.

"Is this okay?" she asks into his lips. Her eyes are so close, all he can see is the blue of her iris and the black of her pupils. Her eyes are so _big_.

_This is more than okay._

"Yes," he breathes, kissing her again. "I knew you liked it."

"Liked what?" He sucks on her beautiful neck and she gasps. It sends a hot dart through his stomach.

"My body."

"Oh—that again. Conceited."

Her nails drag over his pectorals, and he gently bites her.

"Oh," she moans. "Just because…tan and muscular…"

"Muscular?"

"Shut up," she keens, fisting her hand in his hair and tilting his head back to kiss him. She pulls his soul through his mouth.

"God, Elsa," he says when she shifts her weight over him. "I'm—"

_I'm desperate._

_I'm drowning._

_I'm full._

_I must be in love with you._

The thoughts crash into the front of his skull, the letters falling apart and the words scrambling. He loses his vision momentarily. So many things he can say, and he can't say any of them. No. She doesn't deserve any of those words from him. But he can do the next best thing. He can let her do with him what she will. He'll be her vessel for pleasure. He'll do whatever she needs, whatever she wants.

"You're what?" She shifts again, and they both feel the _want_ underneath their clothes.

"I'm with you," he whispers.

She runs her fingers down his cheek, around his jaw, down his neck. His lips. She traces the lines of his face. He runs his fingertips under the line of her skirt, along the curve of her thighs, the distance that his shackles allow.

"Hans," she says delicately. "I'm with you."

All too soon, Julian's telltale knock cuts through the fog they've created, and perhaps they've been kissing with wandering hands for hours. It only feels like minutes. Elsa slowly unwinds herself from him, and she's more beautiful than ever with glassy eyes and swollen lips. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair is mussed, and most of it frames her face in waves.

Julian clears his throat. "Ahem. Sir. Your Majesty. I did knock."

"Is it midnight, already?" says Hans. His voice is thick.

"It is _exactly_ midnight, sir," says Julian.

Elsa stands and waves her hands to rid of the snow that has collected around the room, and Hans follows her to the door. He doesn't even mind that Julian is there witnessing the entire thing.

She turns to him when she is just outside the door. The shackles stop him a bare inch from going outside his room.

"Will I—" he begins.

"I will—" she starts at the same time. She smiles bashfully. He runs a hand through his tangled hair.

"You go," Hans says.

"I was just going to say, I will see you tomorrow, Hans."

He nods. "Great. Yes. I'll…be here."

"Try not to escape," she says, winking.

He grins. "Goodnight, Elsa."

"Goodnight, Hans."

Julian closes the door, and he's alone again. He places his palm against the wooden door, pressing his forehead to it with a momentary wonder.

He won't be able to sleep tonight. He takes a heavy seat at his desk, hesitates for a minute, then pulls out a piece of parchment. He writes DO NOT SEND at the top of the page. He underlines it twice.

He pauses, stares at the blank page. He takes in a large breath, a rush of words flying through his mind. All the things he will never say.

He dips the quill. He begins to write.


	31. Chapter 31

In the morning, Hans is not taken to the fields. Julian answers that he is "being given a day off by order of the queens". That makes him nervous—and curious. Curious because queens, _plural,_ can only mean his mother agreed.

He's been lying awake in his bed and pacing along his cell for the better part of the entire morning, unsure what to do with himself. He hasn't _not_ been to the fields for several months. The change of routine has him unsettled and uncomfortable, until he is finally put out of his misery.

She visits him right before the lunch hour.

He feels very inadequate standing before her in his prisoner garb, but she smiles at him like she doesn't mind it. He's not sure why that's something he's worrying about. He was wearing a similar garb the day before.

"Elsa," he greets.

"Hans," she greets back.

He has a sudden and frightening image that last night was only a dream. It's vanquished when she kisses his cheek.

His blush is immediate and embarrassing.

"It is…very good to see you," Hans says.

"You as well," she answers. Her eyes glitter with amusement. "Have a good night's rest?"

He thinks about bravado. "Hardly," he answers, instead. "You?"

"Not a wink."

He stares at her smile for a minute before he realizes he should at least try to give her some accommodations. He pulls out the only chair from under his desk and gestures for her to take a seat. She takes it.

"Thank you, Hans."

"Of course," he says. He clears his throat. "I find it very curious that I have been… 'given a day off' from field work, today."

"Really? I don't find it that curious at all."

Her innocent look is very suspicious.

"Well, Julian told me the it was 'by order of the _queens._ ' Not one queen, but two."

Elsa sighs. "I told you your mother doesn't hate you." She pauses. "I actually….talked with her this morning, and she agreed that one day of rest from the fields may be good for you."

Hans raises a brow. "You _talked_ with my mother? And she agreed with one day of no punishment?"

Elsa folds her hands in her lap. "Yes, that's correct."

Hans rubs a hand over his chin. "Are you sure it wasn't a proposition? Because I can't see my mother agreeing to something so…"

Elsa shakes her head, almost laughing. "I did not proposition her! I merely asked what she thought. She said she didn't think it would do any harm."

Hans shakes his shackles. "Only as long as I have these on, though, right?"

Elsa hesitates. "Well…"

"I knew it. She'd never agree to freedom." He doesn't mind it. Honestly, it's a surprise that he finds quite nice, and he usually hates surprises. "Regardless, I must thank you, Elsa, for letting me have this day. I never thought I'd have one."

She smiles sadly. "Hans…"

"But this does mean that I have nothing to offer you to do, except sit around in a cell. So, I'm not sure if this would be considered a mercy."

Elsa rolls her eyes at him. "Well, if you would rather, I can easily allow you to be shepherded back to the fields."

He takes a seat on his bed pallet, grinning at her. "No, that's okay. I like this view better."

"That's what I thought."

"I actually think I wear this disheveled, prisoner's look pretty well."

"Oh? What gave you that idea?"

This is where the bravado comes in. Kind of. He shrugs nonchalantly. "You know. Brings out the cavalier recklessness in me. It's also nice I haven't looked in a mirror in about a year or so."

Elsa blinks. "Really? A year?"

By the incredulous tone of her voice, he feels like he let out a secret he didn't realize was a secret. "Uh," he stumbles. "I think so."

"How do you…I mean, what about your hair?"

"Julian usually grooms me, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh," she answers. "I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Her uncertainly over the topic pulls out a smile from him. "Don't be. I think it's been for the best. I'm happy I haven't been forced to look upon myself day in, day out. I was quite vain about my looks. It would have been depressing watching my own…ah, evolution."

That's only partially true. He had been vain, before Arendelle. He held onto it like it was his saving grace. Thirteenth he may well be, but the gods looked upon him for his bone structure and the skin stretched like a canvas. The thing he had that substantiated his charm. It's easier when you are decently good-looking.

He must look frightful, now. He hasn't let his thoughts linger too much over the idea. He hasn't much cared enough about it. Until Elsa—until the possibility to see her. And even then, he pushed that away, because _why would it matter?_

It still doesn't matter, not really. They read each other's words and have seen each other's souls. They didn't watch each other's expressions, the movement of skin, freckles, the cartilages of their noses.

As she looks over him, now, he knows that she sees into the cavern of his abdomen, where his spirit might reside, rather than the skin that tries its best to hide it.

"Perhaps," she finally answers, her eyes vivid in their scrutiny. "I wonder what you would think about what you looked like, now."

He scoffs a laugh. "Probably nothing good, I assure you."

She watches him for a while before she says, "It had helped me—giving myself a good, hard look in the mirror on some mornings. Remembering mistakes and faults, the love felt by Anna, everything that embodied who I wanted to be. Telling myself I was good enough." She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "It is…a personal thing. It might help you, as well, Hans. You never know."

Hans thinks about Elsa, giving herself a pep talk in the mornings. Telling herself that she deserved the love she received, when she held onto the belief that she didn't. He sees that girl—woman—sitting before him, with her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, her head held high even under the weight of a crown.

"You may be right," he concedes. "I'll have to try it, sometime."

She gives him a hint of a smile, and he gives one back to her. He feels a thread of understanding tugging at his chest as he stares at her.

"I'm…going back to Arendelle today, after I discuss something with you," she says, breaking the silence between them.

"So soon?" he hears himself ask quietly. He clears his throat. "I mean to say, yes, of course. A country needs its queen, after all."

She shifts in her seat. "That being said…Hans, I _did_ also make a proposition to your parents this morning."

He begins to frown. "What do you mean?"

Elsa lets her confident veneer slip just slightly, her shoulders coming forward in a second of insecurity.

"We discussed the possibility of a reduced sentence for you," she says.

He blinks, the words jolting him to sit up straight. "What?"

Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, and her eyes find a spot on the floor by his feet. "Your parents were of the idea to keep you in this basement and the cycle of labor year-round for at least as long as it took the rest of your brothers to marry, using the idea of Arendelle's punishment for treason and attempted murder. Arendelle laws dictate life in prison, but your family wanted to use it for a specific period of time. By then, they thought you would have learned the…lesson of humility, hard work, and gaining what you earned—not by stealing it, but by working for it. Then, they were going to apply the Southern Isles' true verdict of punishment. They didn't want the sentences to run concurrently, and…as we both know, the Southern Isles' punishment for treason and attempted murder is execution."

Hans did know that. He assumed that his parents would dole out the punishment they deemed necessary, but their true laws would be in effect whenever his family decided it was time. He did not care so much for the end game, because he began to stop caring one way or the other. He knew execution was unavoidable. He had thought about sending letters to his family members to try to appeal to some merciful nature they may have inside for him, but he had long given up the idea. They would think he was trying to manipulate them.

He clears his throat. "Would this mean I will be sent to the death throes sooner rather than later?"

She is still looking at the floor. He follows her gaze to find what she's looking at and sees a large crack in the cement.

"Actually, as ruler of Arendelle _and_ the individual you attempted to murder, I have executive power to override the bylaws of convicted criminals by extradition, as the crime you committed was not in the Southern Isles, but in Arendelle. Especially complicated ones like you, Hans, seeing as you are a foreigner of royalty who has committed these acts of treason and attempted murder. I can…do what I deem fit for you, not the written laws on parchment."

Hans frowns in thought, blinking hard. "Elsa…what are you saying?"

Her chest rises in a breath. "I'm saying…I found a loophole."

He feels his body go slack. He almost slides off his bed.

"With this idea in place, you would move to Arendelle by this law of extradition and become a personal servant, loyal worker, or whatever job is deemed a good match for you until Princess Anna and I come to an agreement that you have repented for all grievances laid against us." She pauses. "Only _if_ you continue to show this humility and compassion that you have shown to me during this visit, and…in your letters, by the end of this year's winter solstice."

He can barely breathe. Sweat beads his brow, and he feels… light, weightless, like he may fly away with the sea breeze. To even think of the barest possibility of leaving this room, this place, to live in Arendelle, to be near Elsa, to potentially play some role in her life.

It is all so beautiful. Too beautiful. He is grounded by his unworthiness. This picture swiftly developed in his mind is cloudy, flimsy at best, too simply wiped away with the knowledge that his family would never allow him to live, no matter what kind of law or loophole is used.

He doesn't speak for some time, gathering his thoughts together. It's too long for Elsa. She eventually breaks the silence between them.

"Would you be interested in this, Hans?" This time, she's looking directly at him _._

"I…" he tries. "Yes. Yes, of course. This means…this could change the entire direction of my life. I can't even begin to…imagine. But…my family would never agree to this."

She smiles, as if she had been anticipating his answer. "On the contrary, Hans, the only person who can authorize this is _me_ , and with this new trade agreement in place between our countries...well, I can break the negotiation contract if they don't agree with sending you back to Arendelle."

While growing up, each and every Prince of the Southern Isles went through rigorous educational aspects of law, legal proceedings, politics, and a level of exposure to all of the countries they held alliances with. None of their education gave hints to these kinds of loopholes. Hans feels gobsmacked and completely out of his depth.

No one has ever surprised him so profoundly. He's certain his jaw is hanging open.

"You...you would do that?"

Her smile is still soft, but she seems pleased, as well. She might even look...happy, and Hans grips at his shackles to keep himself from doing something crazy, like pushing her up against the wall or throwing her onto his bed.

"I think I'm finally getting the hang of this Queen business," she says.

"And you would...I mean, I don't feel as though I deserve half of the effort you're giving me. I don't..." he tries, struggling to verbalize his thoughts. He sighs in frustration. "Maybe you're right about what you said, about the mirror. Maybe I just finally need to look at myself and see if I can find anything redeeming about my reflection."

Elsa furrows her brows, frowning at him. "I meant what I said last night. I see someone who is a decent human being, and someone who has the potential for great things."

He looks up at her. His jaw softens, his teeth unclenching. "You told me you believed in me. You freed me with those words, alone, Elsa. I think I...I fear that I will fail and disappoint, just as I have always done. I don't know if I can be the exception for you."

Hans stares at her, and she stares back at him. Frost is encircling her knuckles and crawling up her forearms to the bend in her elbows, but her face is cool and collected, giving nothing away about her emotions swirling inside.

He takes in a deep breath and continues. "I forfeited my life as soon as I decided to forfeit yours, Elsa. I just...I want you to be sure with your decision."

"After last night, I saw the life still left inside you. I felt your pain and your sadness and your hope and your longing for freedom. I could see a man who could be a gentleman. I saw someone who could persevere and overcome his demons." She shakes her head. "I didn't kiss you last night because I think you are weak and useless and ordinary, Hans. I kissed you because I think you are the opposite. I can see the man you want to be—and now I'm asking you to prove it to the both of us."

He goes to stand cautiously, watching her hands dancing with frost. She stands up to meet him, and she pushes a hand into his chest. Her handprint freezes on his shirt. " _Try._ "

His breath flutters out of him. "I am," he says. "I will."

"Good," she says, lifting her chin. "Remember, I _can_ send you back to the Isles to face the execution you think you deserve."

Hans smiles faintly. No one can say that Queen Elsa is weak or naive. She's proven she might be the strongest woman Hans has ever met. The room glows with ice. It has branched out from the folds of her dress and into the crevices in the walls. The crack in the floor by their feet gleams, filled with glassy, clear ice.

He breathes out, and his breath is a plume of frosty fog.

"I will remember that," Hans says.

"I'm challenging you, Hans," she says. "I'm daring you to be better."

"A dare? Then I can't answer with boring predictability, can I?"

She flicks her wrist, and the ice vanishes. She crosses her arms. "No, you can't, or I'll be very disappointed."

"I'd never want you to be disappointed again because of me."

"Good answer. I think you're learning," she says, and she finally gives him a smile.

"I think I might be," he says, smiling back. His eyes dart to his desk, and his smile begins to fade. He feels the unequivocal need to show her his gratitude, and hiding those letters from her is anything but.

"Elsa…about the letters…"

She begins to frown, following his gaze, then looking back at him. "What about them?"

Before he loses his nerve, he reminds himself that she is leaving _today_ , and she is a Queen who is very busy, and she more than likely won't make the trip back to see him anytime soon, and she has single-handedly saved his life, so—

"I'm…not ready to show you the letters that I haven't sent you—the DO NOT SEND letters. I don't think…" He looks to the ground, and he steps away from her. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready to show them to you. But you believe in me, and I hope that means you also trust me a little, too. I want to keep that trust, and I think the only way I can is to give the letters to you before you leave. It would be too easy for you to think I made them all up because you've reduced my sentence."

Elsa blinks, her face vulnerable with surprise. "But, Hans, you said you're not ready—"

He walks past her and opens the drawer, taking out the bundle of letters. They are stacked on top of one another. Whenever he can't sleep, he obsessively checks them to make sure Julian didn't send one of them off again without his permission.

"The one on top is the first that I wrote. The one that is a reply to your fictitious one—the crucifixion of my character. The rest second and third are before Julian sent the accidental letter to you. The rest are after our correspondence began again. They're in chronological order. I dated them, so I could remember." He folds them in thirds, making it look like a very large and long winded letter. He closes his eyes and sighs, denting the parchment with his fingers. He opens his eyes and looks up to her, her eyebrows knitted together, her countenance unsure.

"The only thing I ask," he says, swallowing. "The only thing I ask of you is to read them in order. Don't…don't read the last one first. Or, you know, you don't have to read the last one at all." He nervously chuckles, and he might be leaving damp fingerprints on the parchment.

"You know…had I not known you better, I'd think you were trying to manipulate me again," Elsa says teasingly, but Hans can't hide the despair that flits across his face. Elsa frowns. "Oh, Hans, I'm only teasing."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure I wouldn't have put it past me a few years ago," he says. He thrusts out the bundle to her, looking out toward the gated window.

"Hans, you are very pale," she says, glancing at the bundle between them.

"Am I? I assure you, I'm as healthy as a horse."

"I'm not so sure. You might be ill or have a fever again." She holds out a hand, and the air around them chills a few degrees. It helps his heated skin, but the feeling of passing out is quite severe.

With his head still turned away from her, he says, "Please, Elsa. Take them."

After a moment, Elsa reaches her hand out. Instead of wrapping around the letters, she wraps her fingers around his forearm.

"You aren't ready for me to have them, Hans," Elsa says. "So, no, I cannot take them."

He glances back to her. "But—"

"I know they exist. I trust you to be clever enough to not fool me." She smiles.

Hans knows when he's lost a battle. He slowly lowers his arm. "There are ten. Ten letters. I mean, I guess after last night, eleven."

She looks at him funny. "You wrote one last night?"

His neck flares. "I…yes. I couldn't sleep."

The way she looks at him, he thinks she can see right through him.

"What?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Nothing. Like you said, I'll read them someday."

He looks down at them, sighs, and places them back on top of his desk. "All you have to do is send a request to me, and I'll send them to you, Elsa."

"Believe me, I am _very_ curious," she says, eyeing the pieces of parchment on the desk. "Even more now that I turned them down. But I will only read them when you want me to. We can't foster trust based solely on the potential to break it, Hans."

He finally looks her in the eye, and he's falling far more quickly than he knows how to handle. She makes him the biggest fool he's ever been, and that's quite the feat.

"You're right," he says quietly. He wonders if she can read it all over his face. He's terrible at hiding things, these days. He's too out of practice. He wonders if he still wants to. It never helped him before, so maybe that's one thing that has gotten better. "Someday. I promise."

"I'll hold you to it, then," she says. She dusts imaginary dirt from her dress before clearing her throat.

He knows what's about to happen. He doesn't want her to leave.

"You can't stay for lunch?" he asks.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could," she answers, frowning, her eyes flicking away from him. "After yesterday, I need time to…" she splays her hands out in a general gesture, as if she's not sure how to explain.

"Yeah. Yes. Of course. I know it's a lot," he says. He glances to his bed, and his mind takes him to the blissful hours of the night before. Things are always different in the bright light of day, when overlaid by the mysterious pull of night. He takes a breath. "I hope last night wasn't…"

She hurriedly shakes her head. "No, no, I…well, I mean, I instigated that, Hans. I wanted to. I had to…" she pauses, folding her lips in between her teeth, just like she had the evening before. She glances away from him. "I had to know."

"Had to know?" He takes a step closer to her, looking at her curiously. "Know what?"

She clears her throat, but she doesn't move away from him. "You know. Kissing."

A rummage of thoughts clang around his head. "Kissing me? Or kissing in general?"

Her eyes roll up toward the ceiling, and he takes a chance when she hesitates. "Kissing _me_ , then?"

The line of red blooms on the bridge of her nose. She finally looks at him, and her vulnerability makes her even more beautiful. "Yes."

He swallows, and it feels like a hand is gripping his stomach into a hard knot. He wants to touch her somewhere, anywhere. He allows himself to reach up and brush a stray bang out of her eye, as she had to him the previous day.

"Good to know I wasn't the only one to want it," he admits quietly, letting his fingers linger on her cheek. "But you knew that. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, I think."

She reaches up and places her hand on top of his, and it emboldens him to say, "May I kiss you again? To reinforce your answer from last night."

She laughs lightly, and he bends forward to kiss her neck. Her laugh dies in a throaty sigh. Her hands come up to grip his shoulders, and his come around to land on her hips. They are like edges to a cliff, the perfect handhold to keep him from falling into a canyon.

She exhales and pulls his face gently in front of her, letting her forehead rest on his. "I never finished telling you yesterday, about what I realized after Anna discovered the letters," she says gently. "She thought I was stressed and acting differently, what with all the courtship and our correspondence. She spoke to me about it, wondering if I was finally losing it. Queen Elsa, having a relapse and losing control." She smiles humorlessly. Her fingers tighten around his own, and he feels the brief, bright flash of ice against his chest before it disappears just as instantly.

"That's when I realized I started to care about you, and how much I didn't want to. I was biased before I came here, because I had expectations of you, and I hoped you would meet my expectations, just like you had exceeded them on my first visit, even though I tried not to hope and—oh. I'm rambling."

"No, you're not," he says immediately. "Not at all."

She shakes her head and brings it away from his a few inches, holding one of his hands in both of her own. She glances down to them, entwining their fingers, weaving and pulling them apart. "Anyway, I thought I was fine until I realized all of those things. How much I wanted from you, of all people, until I thought it wasn't so crazy after all. Not after all this time."

Hans smiles briefly. "Maybe a little crazy."

She laughs. "Yes. You can't always control your emotions. And Anna began to come around once I…explained."

Hans raises a brow. "Oh, really? I can't imagine her ever coming around to the idea of me being anything other than a criminal who wanted her sister dead."

Elsa sighs. "Not from you, certainly. But from me…it's different."

She continues running her fingers over his palm. His shackles jingle with her ministrations, and he never thought her fingers on his could affect him this way. His stomach shudders, and his heart pounds like a drum.

"Maybe she will," he manages, watching her fingers. "But you're the only one who matters to me."

He doesn't realize the implication behind his words until she looks up to him, her eyes slightly wide.

"I mean—" he tries to backtrack. "Your opinion of me. Your opinion is the only thing that matters to me."

She narrows her eyes at him, pondering over his attempt at a cover up. "I'll remember that, then, Hans."

He knows she can see his flush creeping up his neck. He's sure he's broken a record for number of times he's been embarrassed within two days. Swallowing it away, he steels himself and raises her hand to his lips. He kisses the back of her hand.

"Be sure that you do," he says.

Her lips part slightly, and her cheeks wash over with a bright pink. He slowly drops her hand, and she slowly folds it with her other hand, clasping it in front of the folds of her dress.

She clears her throat. "Well, then. I must go."

_Must you?_

"A Queen's duties are never finished," he says, bowing his head. They stare at one another. Hans brings his arms carefully to his sides, the jingle of shackles just barely keeping him levelheaded. He wants to throw her on his bed again.

She eventually turns toward the door. She places a palm on the wall of his room, and a faintly visible sheen covers the crags of musty brick.

"That should keep you cool for the rest of this season and the summer," she says. "It isn't much, but it should keep you from sweating so much in your chambers. Maybe it'll even help with your…sweaty palms and racing heart when my letters arrive to you."

The allusion of her continuing to write letters to him lightens the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "It might make it worse, feeling as though you're near me."

She glances at him over her shoulder. "Something tells me that you'll be just fine."

She goes to open the door.

"Elsa—" he begins, but he's not sure what he wants to tell her. She turns to him expectantly. He rubs the back of his neck before he pushes past his irrational doubts. He comes forward and gives her a soft, chaste kiss before backing away.

"I, uh…have a safe trip back home," he says.

She gives a slow nod, her cheeks pink again. "And you, try to behave."

"By the orders of Her Royal Highness."

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly before she sobers. Their eyes linger for a few, precious seconds. "Goodbye, Hans."

"Goodbye, Elsa," he says softly as she closes the door.


	32. Chapter 32

As Elsa sits in the boardroom with the King and Queen of the Southern Isles during that second day of her visit, her thoughts run rapidly. Hans' mother and father speak of his impending execution as if it is an inconvenient change in weather. While the day before, King Einar proved to be respectable and accommodating, the subject of his son creates a different persona. His perfect manners become aberrant and forsaken. No emotion infuses his words or expression. He speaks of Hans as if he is speaking of euthanizing a disobedient dog.

His mother, who has been much more accommodating of Elsa's visit and open to socialization of another kingdom, has a slightly different showing of expression. There is more emotion in her eyes while they all speak. Her green eyes are clear and bright, unable to hide their displeasure or discontent over the subject. She will cut her eyes occasionally at her husband, but her face remains cold and contemptible. She looks altered in this boardroom—another face. Not a mother, but a Queen.

"I think this would be good for him, Einar. It would conveniently take away our responsibility of him," Queen Anja says. "You have said yourself you impregnated me too many times. Look at it as if we're shipping him off for adoption."

Elsa blinks at her words. They don't remind her of the woman she had conversed with the previous day, before she realizes this is the way Queen Anja talks to her husband. Either she is appealing to his more…pragmatic nature, or she had fooled Elsa with pretty words in her letters and pretty words while escorting Elsa through the palace and the Isles. How Queen Anja had talked about Hans…Elsa holds out hope that she had gambled correctly, and that Queen Anja is merely playing her own political role.

King Einar clasps his hands on top of the table. His eyes are a steely black. "We've already had a plan in place for him, Queen Elsa. He is to complete his sentence until the rest of our sons marry, and then he will die. He's never been particularly bright, nor has he been a true benefactor for this family. To be frank, the sentence that he's been given is already quite generous. If I had _my_ way," he emphasizes, glancing sideways at his wife, "he would have been executed forthright."

"Be that as it may," Queen Anja says, "you did not get your way, and you won't always get your way, Einar. I believe Queen Elsa's proposition to be very intriguing, at the very least. It will be as though he _has_ died. He has not been a prince for two years. What is worse than death for our sons, Einar? It's always been taking away what they are proudest of having. Hans has always been proud of his intellect, his charm, and his entitlement. We have taken most of that away, but not all. They linger in him with a hardiness that is reminiscent of yours."

King Einar's countenance darkens at her words. It is a high-ranking insult, comparing him to the runt of their brood, and Queen Anja remains as straight-faced as Elsa has ever seen anyone. Collected and severe—she remembers Hans' words.

"However, if we allow this extradition, he will ultimately be stripped of everything that he is. He will be a stable boy, a guard, a dishwasher. I'm sure Queen Elsa is very imaginative," she says, cutting a cruel smile at Elsa. "It is a fate worse than death."

Elsa watches the tension grow between the two rulers. Elsa sits up straighter, giving them both her best, most agreeable smile.

"Yes, indeed," Elsa says. "He will be unrecognizable once he arrives to Arendelle. I give you my word. After what he's done to me, my sister, and my kingdom, he will tremble before me. He will live his days remembering, always, what he has done to me. This will be better than a merciful execution. I want him to live every day regretting what he did, _wishing_ he could die. Wishing he could return to his cell and your generous sentencing. I will turn him into a husk."

Queen Anja gives her a barely perceptible smile, a mere tilt of her lip. King Einar watches her, suspicious, and yet, Elsa believes, interested.

"You paint a vivid picture, Queen Elsa, I will say that. If you keep your word, it would be a way of breaking his spirit completely. I can't say I'm not intrigued by the idea."

Elsa's stomach hardens at the flippancy of his words. Hans is an item to be pawned off, nothing less and certainly nothing more. She had hoped Hans was wrong—surely, there would be mercy underneath the stone exterior of the Southern Isles' rulers. Surely, there would be some hint of regret, of sadness, of grief.

King Einar rubs a palm over his beard. "You may have more success than I. All my punishing and shunning of him has only seemed to spur him on more. With you, I believe it could be the only way to finally put him down. Such a petulant, stubborn excuse for offspring."

Elsa swallows the acid in her throat. She smiles, though it doesn't feel very convincing. However, if there's one thing she's learned as Queen, it is often that people in powerful positions have a weakness to see what they want to see. Emotions and passion can be blinding. King Einar is an intelligent individual, but he is too quick to anger on the subject of his son. And, due to her youth, most underestimate her during political meetings. Most don't think she has any challenge within her.

"I am glad we are in agreement on that end," Elsa says. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself for what she is about to say. She takes a quick glance at her gloves, but they seem to be doing their job, reigning in her ice. "However, I know of the…reputation of the Southern Isles. I hope you don't take this as an insult, Your Highnesses. I only want to preserve and solidify that this will be confirmed and the contract will not be broken by the time the end of the year is upon us."

She did not speak to Hans' mother about this. Queen Anja's eyes narrow. The King's shadow seems to grow behind him like a fiend.

"What are you implying, Queen Elsa?" he asks.

Elsa clears her throat, taking out the edited contract she had brought with her from Arendelle. "Due to the nature of this agreement between us, as it is a bit of a sensitive issue, I took the liberty of maintaining my position with your kingdom. With our trade now in full effect, I would like to establish that I will void this confirmation if you do not allow extradition of Hans back to Arendelle at our agreed date."

Both the King and Queen eye her with surprise. The King is the first one to begin to sneer.

"Are you saying you do not trust our word, Queen Elsa?"

She shakes her head. "Not at all, King Einar. I am only ensuring what I want to be upheld."

His neck begins to redden slightly, with the barest hint of pink curling up onto his cheeks.

"Seems to me that you are merely juggling words around."

"I do not mean this as a slight against you, King Einar. Eight months is a long time, and there is always the chance for minds to change. I only want to ensure the best beneficial route for both of us. You will gain a significantly higher profit from our increase in trading, and I will receive my prisoner with his head intact to sabotage my own way."

She sees his jaw clench, the muscle buckle. Queen Anja, however, after recovering from the initial shock, has a placid, inscrutable face. Her eyes are the only thing that gave Elsa the telltale sign. They seem pleased.

Elsa clears her throat against the thick air that crops up between the length of the table. "I wanted to tell you now, instead of later, as I felt it would truly be an insult had I blindsided you months in the future."

"You are an impertinent little Queen, aren't you?" King Einar seethes, his eyes onyx and beady. "Coming in here, making us look like _fools,_ attempting your hand at extortion _—"_

Queen Anja interrupts him. "On the contrary, Einar, she has taken a page from your own guidebook, has she not? This is hardly extortion. This is what we call a bargain." She looks over Elsa, her eyes glimmering. "A taste of our own medicine. After you take a cold bath and cool off, I think you may even begin to respect her. Or shall she shower you with snowflakes, instead?"

King Einar harrumphs. "You are both trying my patience this morning."

Elsa bites the meat of her lip, trying her best not to smile at how petulant the King seems by the Queen's reprimand. She can nearly imagine Hans acting in the same way.

"While Einar licks his wounded pride, I will do the honor of answering you, Queen Elsa. As Queen of the Southern Isles, I accept this offer. A trade for our ineffectual son so that we can achieve such a significant profit? A kingdom must run comfortably. This is hardly a bargain. This is a steal. I wish you had come up with this proposition much earlier, Queen Elsa."

King Einar scoffs. "Pah. The baker's dozen. You're right. At least we can get something out of him other than disgrace."

Elsa stares at him. Sitting in that chair, Elsa has never felt more disconnected from someone in her life. His mother, she can now tell with certainty, is putting forth some effort in her act. The past few days of walking with her, and speaking to her in the letters, has given Elsa some semblance of her character. His father, however… His father does not care, nor has he ever.

She imagines Hans as a young boy, trying to coax out anything but disdain from his father's black eyes. She can see King Einar backhanding his cheek, the red mark that would appear on Hans' face from asking too many questions. She can see Queen Anja ignoring the brutality, or, perhaps, reprimanding King Einar and receiving the back of his hand, as well. But Queen Anja seems much too strong for that.

Instead, she is severe and distant. Elsa wonders if Queen Anja does not know how to show love in the most conventional of ways. Her upbringing may have also been severe, and distant, and raising thirteen boys was not in her best interests.

When Elsa visits Hans that day, she sees the vulnerability she had seen the day before, but it's magnified. After the discussion in the boardroom, he looks bedraggled and beaten with his long hair and overused tunic and burlap pants. Worst of all, he looks at her with unabashed fervor. He has no qualms about how openly he stares. Her heartrate quickens too easily under his gaze. He merely has to stand there and watch her, and her ice wants to envelop her whole. She almost wants to tell him to look away from her.

She continues to hold the residual weight of her title on her shoulders, coming straight from the boardroom and the meeting, but if he notices that she's a bit distant as compared to the night before, he doesn't mention it. In fact, he only seems a bit nervous. His tics are more prominent in his cell in the daylight. He rubs the back of his neck, he runs his fingers over the notches of his shackles, his knee bounces like he wants to go for a run.

When she tells him about his shortened sentence, he nearly kills her with the hope that blooms within him. She can almost see his skin glow with it. She watches it just as quickly vanish with doubt. The image of him as a boy runs through her mind again, being slapped or beaten or sent to his room for isolation, and she gives him a palmful of her ice, because that's the only way she knows how to inspire anything, to motivate, to build. Always with her ice.

It seems to jolt him like a shock. He blinks awake again, and his green eyes—once murky with doubt and despair—are revitalized with the potential of a future. They are vibrant like spring. It brings her pleasure when he intimately kisses her neck and her jaw. It brings her unending curiosity when he offers her his unread letters. It makes her uncertainty about the bundle of energy between them fester. She knows more than ever that she wants him, and she's not sure what that could end up meaning for the future. When he kisses her goodbye, it is soft and sweet and settles into her lips like a balm.

When Elsa is saying her farewells to both of the rulers, King Einar gives her one begrudging nod. Queen Anja comes up to her before the carriage doors open to take her to the ship. Her hands clasped in front of her, Queen Anja says,

"I have enjoyed our correspondence, Queen Elsa. I have also enjoyed watching you make your way as a young Queen. It is not easy to stand up to King Einar, for even seasoned rulers. You have surprised me with your cleverness and your spine. King Einar, I am sure, would have found a way to break negotiations in one way or another, by either intimidation, threats, or a combination of the two if he felt so compelled. His weakness is his need for power and control. I am sure you know."

Elsa nods slowly, unsure of what Queen Anja is wanting her to say.

"You also use your words well. I would be hard pressed to be fooled by your true feelings for my son, had I not already known about them."

At this, panic flits across Elsa's face before she can control it. "I'm sorry, Queen Anja, but I think you misunderstand—"

"I misunderstand nothing, Queen Elsa. I know what I see. Do not denigrate my intelligence. You may do that to King Einar, but you may never do that to me. I respect you, and I believe it to be mutual."

Elsa swallows. "So do I."

"Good. Let's keep it that way." She pauses, glancing back to the castle. "Before you go, Queen Elsa, you must know that I appreciate what you are doing for him. I've never been able to show…well, I love all my children. I will leave it at that. But I believe he will be able to flourish in Arendelle, more than he ever will here. He will live there. He has only ever survived here."

Elsa wonders at her words. "Why don't you just tell him that you love him?"

Queen Anja smiles, and it holds the barest amount of wistfulness. "After all these years…do you truly think he'd believe it?"

Elsa's mind immediately answers. _No._ No, he wouldn't.

Her face must answer for her, because Queen Anja nods. "Farewell, Queen Elsa. Have a safe trip home. We will send Hans the day after the winter solstice."

"Farewell, and…thank you," she says.

Now, here Elsa is looking at the horizon, bordered by the sea, imagining all of what Hans' life could have entailed. Thinking of how hard it must be to believe that someone could love him or hold him or think of him as anything more than an unwanted child and brother. Elsa's heart begins to ache.

It aches all the way home.

* * *

Dear Elsa,

I didn't know what I was going to do with myself after you left. Julian brought me books from our library, which I tend to read if I'm not too exhausted after the day of laboring. That's my other hobby, besides writing to you.

Interestingly enough, my mother came to visit me the evening on the day you left. She told me how much you surprised her during your visits—this last one and the one previous. She told me the things I already knew: how strong you were, how unwavering. How noble, how beautiful, how she wished she had at least one daughter, because you would have emulated her in the highest regard.

She told me how, after your proposition to extradite me back to Arendelle, my father's face had turned so red, it was almost purple. You didn't mention that when we were talking. I wish desperately I could have seen his reaction. My mother, in all her prim and proper fashion, told me he was "less than pleased". I've been on the receiving end of my father's anger, so I can imagine a few things. But to see his face when his hands were tied, to let his least favorite son live…it shouldn't bring me as much joy as it does, but I am always going to be grateful to you for putting him through such misery and anger.

I'll be honest. My father is cunning. He gets what he wants. After recovering from the shock of your news, I've been wondering what my father's next move will be. I've been reading over laws between countries, extradition, and other potential loopholes I'm sure he will find to rebut yours. I haven't been any to find anything concrete, but I'm sure there's something.

I think the thing that has most surprised me is my mother's reaction. I had believed she would have taken my father's side and agreed with the execution, but when I asked her about the extradition negotiation, she merely pursed her lips and said, "The trade agreement with Arendelle will increase our kingdom's net profits by 7.5 percent. That is not worth losing over something as trite as your execution, son. Even your father will see this once his pride heals from being swindled by a young Queen." That's, you know, her nice way of saying that she doesn't want to see me die—or I imagine, what _you_ would tell me she means, in her own way. Honestly, I see this as her meaning exactly what she says. They're not going to risk losing potential profit just from their spite to kill me. My execution would mean yet another failure for their ventures into fortune.

That is something I'll say about my family. There is nothing they love more than money and power. This only reinforces that. I'm only curious if my father's pride will actually heal.

Hans

* * *

Dear Hans,

Your father did seem flustered and caught off-guard at my proposition. I feel as though your mother is a bit exaggerated with her descriptions. He may have turned the barest amount of pink, but he hid his anger well. He must have shown more of his emotions to your mother once I had already left the room to go see you. You have your father's jaw line, did you know that? I know this may not be something you want to hear, but perhaps that was why it was so easy for me to negotiate with him. I didn't fear him, because he reminded me of you with his features. You have more of your mother's coloring—green eyes, auburn hair—but you are distinctly of your father's structure. I imagined him to be you if worse came to worst, and that gave me the confidence I needed.

You're right about your mother. I would say that is her way of saying that she cares—but I hear your disbelieving scoffs already. It's a good thing they value money over your execution. That only means that I bargained correctly. I'll tell you that I've looked for every loophole I could find, too. I've put some of my advisors on the task as well, and if they can't find anything, then your father won't, either.

After seeing your mother and father together in the boardroom, where we discussed your punishment, I trust your mother and the power she has over your father. Don't underestimate the power of a matriarch, _especially_ when she's the only female of the house. I doubt your brothers have any room to argue.

I am very happy she went to see you, and it sounds like you might have truly talked to her. I'm proud of you for allowing it, and even moreso for trying.

Perhaps it would be for the best if your father's pride never healed. I think what he needs most of all is _less._ Less pride, less ego, and less belief that he has power over everything.

Elsa

* * *

Hans can hardly believe it when Julian opens his door, telling him he's to be transported to Arendelle on a ship and unlocking his shackles.

It has been a long eight months since he's seen Elsa. He's been trying to convince himself that this may also be a dream, as well. The hope had been a disease, coming and going, lingering then dissipating. Writing to her had been wonderful, as always, but the doubt battled with the hope. Surely his father had found a way to burn the contract without fire, shredded the parchment without a tear.

Julian stands before him, waiting. He gives Hans a smile.

"The Queen is waiting for you by the entrance hall, sir."

"This is really it, then, is it Julian?" he asks.

Julian nods deeply. "It is so, sir."

Hans had been given a reticule to place his belongings and whatever else he wanted to take with him. He had two pairs of clothing and his letters, with ample space leftover.

"My wife made you this, sir," Julian says, walking forward to place something wrapped in butcher paper in his hands. Hans looks down at it, infinitely puzzled.

"What…is it?"

"Pastry," Julian says, then he chuckles at Hans' wide eyes. "For the long journey. A plum tart. She told me it's your favorite."

Hans blinks down at it, feeling the weight of the tart in his hands. "My favorite. How did she…"

"You forget, sir, that we have been in service of the crown for several years. She has baked for the family during all her time here. She knows the favorites."

"Yes, but…there are thirteen of us."

Julian shrugs good-naturedly. "It is easier to take note of than you think."

Struck dumb by the sentiment, he carefully places it in his reticule. "Well, I…tell her I say thank you."

"Of course, sir."

Once they reach the entrance, Julian speaks up. "Sir, have a safe journey. May the gods watch over you."

Hans looks over Julian, wondering if he'll ever see him again. "Thank you, Julian. For everything you've done for me. I know it wasn't the most pleasant, being stationed to guard the delinquent son for these three years, but…you could always ask for a raise?"

Julian belts out a laugh. "It wasn't that terrible, Hans. You never gave me much trouble."

"I'll put in a good word with my mother," Hans says, grinning. They shake hands, gripping tightly.

"Don't make Queen Elsa too crazy, sir. I hope it all goes well," Julian says, then he pats Hans on the shoulder, giving him a knowing look.

Hans shakes his head, trying to clear the surprise from his face. Perhaps Julian liked him, after all. "You and I both, Julian."

He reaches his mother at the grand entrance, right before the doors. His father isn't here, nor are his brothers. Hans would have been floored had anyone been here, but he is not so surprised to see his mother. She's been visiting him once a month in his basement, though the words they spoke always seemed unsubstantial and unnecessary. Most words were about the weather, the crops, but infrequently there would be words about updates in the family, with the brothers, with their relations with other countries. She'd never come within ten feet of him, and he was hardly inclined to get any closer to her prim and proper stare than he needed to be.

Now, however, she stands beside him, glancing over him. Perhaps it is because he no longer wears shackles that she does not deem it beneath her to stand so close. He is, technically, no longer a prisoner of the Southern Isles. That fact alone seems to have improved the sneer she holds when she looks at him.

"Seeing me off, mother?" he asks. "I confess I don't understand why you felt an obligation. I can assure you that you can go back to your chambers and continue your Queenly duties."

Her shoulders are stiff and sturdy, unmoving. Her stare is as unflinching as ever. "If it does not bother you, I am going to see you to your ship."

Hans stares back for a moment. "What?"

"It is unseemly to let your mouth hang open, Hans. Close it before you begin housing flies."

She turns from him and walks proudly with her cane through the doors toward the awaiting carriage. She acts as if it's a regular occurrence. Hans begins to wonder if this is it—is this his execution? Perhaps his father is waiting at the entrance of the ship, standing before the chopping block with an axe in his hand, excited to make the killing blow himself.

"Come along, Hans. Wouldn't want to miss your only chance of escape, would you?" his mother calls.

His feet start moving. He glances around the front courtyard, and seeing nothing amiss, he pauses before the open door of the carriage.

"What are you playing at, mother?" he asks. "I'm not _that_ dense."

"I'm not _playing_ at anything, Hans," she says, her voice monotone. "You are leaving, and I am sure you may never find your way back, here. I am still your mother. I am going to say goodbye."

Hans narrows his eyes, scrutinizing her. She gives away nothing, as per usual. He sighs, figuring if this is the way he's going to go, so be it. He takes his seat across from her, and he goes to pull out his plum tart.

"What is that?" she asks him.

"A farewell gift from the kitchens." He takes a large bite, and crumbs fall into his lap. He wipes them off onto the floor of the carriage. "I'm having my last meal. Also, give Julian a raise. He put up with me for three years, the poor fellow. Might as well reward him for handling such a lousy job with minimal complaints."

Queen Anja purses her lips at him, and he wonders if it would be considered her smile. Probably not.

"Such a dramatic boy. I will consider the raise."

Hans smiles. "So, is father going to appear in front of the ship, hold a public execution?"

At that, she glares at him. "Hans."

"Figured I may as well ask."

She eyes him the rest of the way to the docks, and it makes him very uncomfortable and unsettled. It's almost as if she's ingraining him into her memory. It almost confirms his execution.

_She cares about you,_ he hears Elsa say in his mind's eye. But Elsa is hopeful and naïve, and she grew up with people who cared for her.

The only person Queen Anja has ever cared about is herself.

When they arrive at the docks, Hans glances around five times to be sure that the only people surrounding him are two palace guards and his mother.

"I can't believe it. You _aren't_ going to kill me? This _isn't_ a setup? Huh. I guess Queen Elsa was right after all," Hans says, shaking his head.

Queen Anja ignores his deliberate shock, standing as tall and as stiffly as a statue. "Yes, well, I'm sure Queen Elsa will put you through the paces, as she's promised," she says, looking at him with the green eyes he inherited. It is different seeing them in broad daylight. They aren't as hollow or inscrutable as they are when inside the castle.

"Yes, I am sure she will," Hans answers, pausing before the bridge leading up to the deck. "She told me briefly of your correspondence. She has told me little of them but says to give you a chance. What do you think, mother? Should I give you a chance? Should I believe you could see me as anything more than an inconvenient pregnancy and another mouth to feed?"

"Should you?" she asks him, her eyes running over him like the tide. "Will you? I doubt you will feel so compelled, especially as you are now leaving me. I was not a good mother, Hans. I will never argue that I was. I will never ask you to give me a chance, because that would be an unfair and selfish recommendation after these past twenty-five years."

Hans takes in her words, watching her and wondering. There is a brief happenstance of melancholy in the lines of her mouth, only visible due to the harshness of the sunshine.

"Queen Elsa told me you never blamed me for what I've done to you. I always thought that was a nice line, to work towards her compassion, to shed yourself in a better light." He pauses, then he sighs. "Tell me the truth, mother. Do you blame me?"

She stares at him for a long time, clasping her hands in front of her dress, body pressing weight into her cane. "No," she finally says.

Hans nods slowly, not quite believing. Skepticism runs in his veins, and the timing of the question is too…inconvenient. This would be an odd time to lie, since he's leaving the kingdom. He wonders what she would say if he hadn't been a prisoner, if he wasn't leaving. He wonders what she will achieve from this. She wants him gone. There is no true reason to lie except for the compulsion of it. Or, perhaps, she has the capacity to feel _guilty_ , and this is her attempt at cleaning away her sins. A fresh, new start with the thirteenth blemish gone.

It is the line of her mouth makes him wonder. The thick river of skepticism ripples with the seed of doubt.

_Maybe._ It is too hard to know for sure. Hans doesn't think he'll ever know the truth. He's not quite sure if it matters. Love has never been housed here, and Hans has realized that love might be the only thing he wants.

"Goodbye, mother," he says.

"Goodbye, my Hans," she says.

The term of endearment makes a chill run down his spine. She hasn't said that in _years._ He doesn't like it. It feels like a trap, like an insidious ploy, and he will be damned if he allows himself to be fooled. He turns toward the deck, the guards escorting him to his boarding room. He doesn't look back.

Queen Anja stays at the dock until the ship is no longer visible on the horizon. She is not an emotional woman, but it does not mean she cannot regret.

She does not weep until she returns to her bedroom in the castle.


	33. Chapter 33

Hans knows it won't be easy, arriving to Arendelle and facing the music. Him and Elsa had continued with their correspondence, and they had written about a myriad of things, including but not limited to the laboring jobs he would more than likely begin with, and how they were both looking forward to seeing one another.

He also knows that Anna, in all her wrath, is waiting for him, too. He was not sure how to prepare for that. He is not sure if he will ever gain her approval, though he has wondered over and over if he is or will ever be in any position to receive it.

_Just be yourself,_ he thinks as he's escorted off the boat, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it. _Be yourself. You know where that's gotten you._

He walks off the dock behind his guards into the carriage awaiting them to take them to the castle. When they arrive, Elsa and Anna are standing before the entrance to the castle doors. Elsa has her hands clasped in front of her. Anna has hers crossed, her face in a screwed up frown.

Elsa is a ray of sunshine in the ending season of winter. She glances to Anna occasionally, her eyebrows in a worried line. When Hans steps out of the carriage, however, her face softens and she smiles at him. Anna notices this and frowns even deeper.

Two guards flank the queen and the princess, arms clasped behind their backs as Hans comes to stand before them.

"Prince Hans," Elsa greets. "I am happy to see you have made it safe and sound. I hope your trip went smoothly."

Hans bows deeply. "Your Highness. Thank you. I can't complain."

Anna snorts. "As if you have any right to complain. Elsa saved you. You should be kissing her feet and kneeling and begging her for mercy."

Hans inclines his head. "I agree, Princess Anna." He turns his eyes back to Elsa, and he feels the eight months that he's waited as he looks over her. "I believe I'll be groveling for as long as she'll let me."

Elsa looks over him, too. Her eyes are guarded, as they had been when they were first face to face, but they are crystal clear and bright. She gives him a small smile.

"Yes," she answers. "You will."

"And I _will_ punch the daylights out of you if you even _think_ of overstepping any boundaries, if I detect your sociopathic ways rearing up and the power hungry manipulation clawing back out onto the grounds of Arendelle," Anna says. She points her fingers to her eyes, then points at him, then points back to her eyes. "If I get a whiff of any of this, I will be on you like stink on garbage." She takes a step closer to him, and the guard beside her hovers closely. "Stink. On. Garbage."

"I would expect nothing less," Hans says. "Good simile."

"There's a lot more where that came from, _bub,"_ she says, jamming a finger into his chest to emphasize her point.

"Princess Anna and I have talked extensively about similes that describe you the best," Elsa says, her voice amused. "Haven't we?"

"Don't tell him! His head is going to become the size of Earth knowing that we've been talking about him!" Anna says, looking at Elsa then cutting her eyes back to Hans. "They were all very mean and ugly, by the way. Nothing nice."

"I didn't think you would say anything nice about me," Hans answers.

"Good! Because we didn't! Well, Elsa tried, but that's because she's diplomatic and queenly. As she should be," Anna says.

"And now that you're here, we will escort you to your servant's chambers to get settled in before you will begin your training," Elsa says, motioning for their group to make their way into the castle. "Kai is our head servant and butler. He will be in charge of taking you through the paces, first in the kitchens, then in the stables. If you do well in these areas, you will have the potential to train as a guard. You have experience in swordsmanship, which will be highly beneficial for you if you so choose to become part of our royal guards and army."

Hans perks up at the thought. "I would—"

"Yeah, but that's only _if_ we begin to trust you with carrying a sword within a mile radius of us," Anna says, narrowing her eyes at him. "Don't get excited, _Prince_ Hans. I can already come up with forty-two reasons off the top of my head as to why you would be incapable and incompetent with any type of weaponry inside these castle walls."

"Understood, Princess," Hans says, following behind them into the grand entrance and down the hallway to the servant's chambers. The guards beside him seem to inch closer to his sides, and he feels a brief instance of claustrophobia. "I'm aware of my position and where I stand."

"Hmph," Anna grunts, unconvinced.

"It will take loyalty and a rigorous type of training to become a potential candidate for guardianship, Prince Hans," Elsa states, looking over at him. "We have put in place a difficult training regimen over the past few years, along with psychological testing to ensure we only have the best protection. I'm sure you can appreciate this, as well. We do not like to take chances with our kingdom's security. And if we _do_ have any rumors of dissension or unrest, I will always be there to ensure loyalty," she says, and a culmination of knife-sharp icicles border the line of her skin.

"Elsa is untouchable," Anna says, grinning as both her and Elsa glance at one another. Then she turns a steely glare over to Hans. "So don't even think about being your normal, arrogant, creep-o self, got it? Because I can punch the daylights out of you, but Elsa can slice you into dozens of meaty ribbons."

Hans watches the dangerous glitter of ice dance around Elsa, her dress, and her hair. He knows well that she will do whatever she deems is necessary. She had made it clear enough during their last encounter in the Southern Isles, and she ensured him through the letters after that both her and Anna would not go easy on him. He did not have any delusions that they would be, and now standing before Elsa outside of his chains and his imprisonment, the weight of potential failure is heightened. He hadn't even been sure he would make it this far, with the thought of a surprise execution always at the back of his mind. Now that he's here, he feels a swelling of fear and inadequacy that has not been so prominent the past months. He can feel the shackles around his wrists, the shadows of their ghosts on his skin. He realizes he's experiencing _nerves._

"I will do everything in my power to serve you," Hans says, clearing his throat. "And avoid, ah, being sliced into meaty ribbons."

Elsa smirks while Anna continues to look suspicious.

"Good. I would expect no other answer, Hans," Elsa says, and they stop in front of a door on the first floor. It leads into a small foyer and a bedroom through another doorway. "This will be your living area. You have a bed, a dresser, a bathroom, and a desk. This should be enough to accommodate your needs. If there is anything else you require, let Kai know, and he will request directly to us. Understood?"

Hans nods, glancing over his room. It is miles more comfortable than his basement room in the Southern Isles, though the size is very comparable. The walls are painted a neutral cream, with a little window overlooking the eastern grounds. Sunlight streams in and bathes the room with brightness. The bed is at least a foot wider than his bed pallet he previously had, and it is lifted off the ground. There is a small desk off in the corner, beside the window, already set up with a quill and ink and parchment. The dresser has three drawers, but he may only fill a quarter of one of them with the pair of clothes he brought in his reticule.

He takes a deep breath. This luxury will take a bit to get used to.

"Yes. Understood, Your Highness."

"You have a closet here," she gestures, walking to the door beside his dresser. "Your uniforms will be placed here, once we take your measurements and have our tailors fabricate what you will need. They will do that this afternoon, once Kai gets you settled in with the areas you will work. I have a few meetings to attend to this morning, but I will come back by later this evening to see how you are acclimating," she says. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Kai will be in shortly to show you around and begin to orient you."

Hans nods, taking in the room and the adornments, and he tries not to let himself look desperately at Elsa. He knew he wouldn't get to spend much time with her, not like he had when she visited him. He tries not to let his eyes linger on her figure too long, with Anna's prudent stare blazing through him. He bites his tongue so he doesn't say, _It's very good to see you._ Or, _I've missed you._ Or, _The letters were nothing in comparison to talking with you face to face._

"Thank you, Your Highness. Princess Anna," he says, bidding them farewell. They turn and leave, closing the door behind them.

* * *

The first day is a busy one. Kai is a neutral personality, spouting off information and giving nothing away about his feelings. He shows him to the kitchens, teaching him how to keep it tidy, the pace of the washing, where the dishes go when dirty or clean. He teaches him how to take care of the linens, the bare essentials that Hans never really thought about servants participating in, and realizes how naïve he's been with the inner workings of a castle. Kai also shows him to the stables, working with the horses, how to clean them and the stables, watering the horses, feeding them. He shows him to the fields and the gardens, introduces him to all the workers and their skeptical glances and unhidden disdain, showing him what tools they use for the areas of the grounds. Kai then takes him to the lands further away from the castle with their crops and farmlands, and Hans finally begins to feel adequate when using the tools for tilling and labor.

By the time they get back to the castle, it is already late afternoon. The tailors are ready to take his measurements, telling him they will create kitchen uniforms, gardening uniforms, pants for the stables and farmlands. They poke and prod and stick him a few times with the sewing needles, which he has a mind to think they do on purpose, and by the time they're finally done with everything, it is just passing dinnertime.

Kai takes him down to the serving quarters for dinner, and Hans meets the rest of the ladies and gentlemen—the cleaning ladies and the servants who are in charge of specific areas of the castle. Kai is Elsa's personal servant, and Elena is Anna's. They are all seemingly friendly, and they accommodate Hans' presence for the evening, but Hans can feel the tension. There are occasional shifty eyes, lingering stares, a berth of space maintained between the servants and Hans. They tell him about the daily life and routines, about how much they enjoy the work, and how Queen Elsa and Princess Anna have always been a pleasure to serve. Hans can hear the threat underneath the tone, how they will never let anything happen to the sisters, how they will always be there for them even when their judgment might betray them.

Hans feels the prickles of their suspicion, the ire behind their words, their distrust along the lines of their brow. Hans tries to finish his meal, but the discomfort in the room plagues him, and it is hard for him to smile—to charm and put at ease—and he ends up retiring to his room earlier than the rest of them.

Going up the stairwell, he can hear their hushed whispers following his departure, the low pitch of discontent.

Elsa visits him just as she says she would, and Hans is very relieved to see her.

"Kai has told me you managed things well, today," she says, sitting in his desk chair. Hans sits on the edge of his bed, facing her.

"That's...good to hear," Hans says. "I learned a lot during work on the farmlands. I'm afraid I'm helpless in the kitchens."

"I would enjoy watching you stumble around. I'm sure Helga will teach you one way or another," Elsa says, laughing.

"I'm pretty sure Helga hates me. She barely allowed me to touch any of the boards or kitchen items without pushing me out of the way." Hans smiles a little. "Actually, I'm pretty sure everyone hates me—or doesn't like me. Or doesn't trust me. Or thinks it's a good idea that I'm here."

Elsa sighs. "I know. I talked to them at length before you got here. They all gave me their opinions about you and this...idea. Most did not want to train you. I'll be honest," she says. "It was hard to get them agreeable with this, knowing how much...grief you put me through. Us through. So, well, that is to be expected."

Hans nods. "I figured as much, and I expected at least a little hostility. It would be strange if everyone liked me."

Elsa smiles at him. "Everyone is as skeptical as I was three years ago."

Hans stares at her for a moment. "I'm...glad to be here, you know."

Elsa stares back, leaning fully into the chair. Her posture settles, and her shoulders droop into a loose and more comfortable position.

"I'm glad you're here, too," she says. "You even cut your hair."

"Oh," he says, running his hand through it. It is significantly shorter than it had been when she last saw him. "Julian insisted I be presentable when I arrived. Honestly, I thought he was just priming me for my execution."

Elsa blinks at him. "What?"

Hans shrugs. "I just doubted the whole time. I didn't think my family would let me go, even for the substantial riches they were getting. I thought I was being driven to my execution until I was standing on the bridge to dock on the ship." He shakes his head. "Kind of funny now, looking back."

"Your mother was never going to allow your dad to have his way," she says.

"You keep saying that, but I really can't see it."

She sighs at him. "Well, you're here. That says more than I can."

Hans concedes the point, though he doesn't have to like it—or believe it, ever.

"Princess Anna seems excited."

Elsa laughs. "She'll come around, if you allow her to."

"Me? I don't think I can do anything to make her think I'm redeemable."

"It's like we've talked about. Be yourself. If you are, then she'll begin to see who I see. She just needs time," Elsa says.

_Be yourself._ The words ring through him like a bell. He sits up straighter. "During dinner tonight with the other servants..." Hans pauses. "I...I haven't been around that many people in a while. I tried to remember how I used to act. All my charm and acting, all the things that used to make me who I was. I found myself trying to find that person again, because I didn't feel comfortable. I felt trapped, and I was trying to regain control, somehow, but I found that I...couldn't. Which is a good thing, but...I don't know. It felt… _I_ felt different."

Elsa places her hands in her lap, looking over him. "Maybe this is the first step, Hans. You're finally shedding that skin that you've formed over the years with your family, with how they…treated you. Maybe you're emerging, just like you emerged for me."

"It would be infinitely easier if I knew who I was. This not knowing is getting kind of old."

"Oh, so you're saying all those months locked in your basement, you didn't have some kind of enlightenment?"

"What I wouldn't give to have had that enlightenment." He falls back onto the bed, eyes catching onto the ceiling. "It felt like enlightenment when you visited me. I thought—"

He realizes what he's about to begin saying, and he immediately stems his words. Saying something as absurd as, _I thought my love for you saved me_ , is never going to be safe to say aloud. Besides, while it did awaken something inside of him, it doesn't mean it opened his eyes to who he is, now. In fact, it made him all the more…confused. Who he wants to be and who he is both feel miles apart.

"You thought, what?" she says, and he feels the mattress sink beside him, underneath her added weight. His senses abruptly magnify. He can almost feel her chill through his clothes.

"I thought…it gave me perspective," he ends up saying. "It gave me some clarity, but it also…didn't."

"Hm," she hums, laying on her side next to him. Hans glances over to her, and his skin comes alive. He turns his head back to stare at the ceiling. She's too close. It's almost too much. "What do you mean it didn't?"

"I, uh…" he says, and his mind goes back to some of his words in the unsent letters, fogging up his thoughts. "I just mean I'm still figuring it out."

"Figuring what out, Hans?" she asks softly. She must see the panic flit across his face, because her eyes are vulnerable and unguarded, now. He swallows.

"Feelings," he relents.

Her eyes spark with recognition. "Ah. Feelings. I see."

_Do you?_

"Yeah," he laughs nervously. "You know how complicated those can be."

"Sure," she whispers. Her hand goes to rest gently on his chest, and he lets out a breath, because he's _imagined_ this, too many times, her hand trailing down his stomach—

He sits up, standing and walking toward the window at the side of the room. He runs a hand through his hair. It's too short to truly mess it up. It feels too feathery and light. He places his hands on his hips.

"Sorry," he says.

"Hans? Are you alright?" Elsa asks, but she remains sitting on the bed. "I didn't mean to…"

Hans closes his eyes, wanting to kick himself for being so…cowardly. Here he is, with a Queen in his new _bedroom_ in a _castle_ where he is no longer _imprisoned_ and he's stopping her advances? Is he an idiot?

"No. I mean, yes I'm alright, I'm just…" he takes a sharp breath, exhaling it in a quick, rough sigh. He turns to look at her. "You don't understand how much I…" _want you_ "…I want to have you here, Elsa. You don't understand how much I…" _think I love you_ "…care about you. But I'm not a prince, anymore. I'm a convicted felon. Shortening my sentence doesn't change that, nor does it change what I've done."

"I know that," she says, standing. Her voice has hardened. "I know that better than anyone. Better than you, even, Hans, because it seems you're not even sure of who you _are."_

Her words crackle and snap against his skin like a bonfire. He winces. "I just…don't want you to regret any of your decisions or…physical actions made out of impulse."

Her eyes could cut through him, they are as sharp as broken glass. "Oh, impulse, is it? You still don't think I have any control over myself? First my powers, now my…what, my _desire?_ " She grimaces, crossing her arms around herself. "And I thought you knew me better, _Prince Hans_ ," she huffs, beginning to pace in front of the bed. A sheet of ice follows her like a carpet.

He winces. "I'm not saying you don't have control—"

"Oh! Well, then, if that's the case—"

"Elsa, please—"

"Far be it for me to assume that you just care about me so much that you _have_ to push me—"

"Elsa, I'm saying that I—"

"—away, after showing you all this generosity and knowing that you're actually a good person—"

"I don't have control!" he shouts. "That's it. That's what I'm saying!"

Elsa halts her tirade. "What?"

"I won't have any control over myself when I'm around you. Okay?" He runs his hand over his face, sighing. "Not you. Me. If you keep…If I keep allowing myself to be close to you, wanting to be near you, touching you, I can't…I'll lose it all. I've been losing my mind, long before you came to visit me. And then after… I've been unraveling. If you touch me again, I swear, I'll probably rip your dress off, throw you onto the bed, and finish what we started in that basement."

Elsa's mouth drops open, and Hans realizes what he's said.

"I mean…" he tries, but gives up. He knows it's futile. "Yeah. I mean exactly that."

"Hans…"

"Sorry," he says, turning to face the window again. "I'm being rather forward about this, but you had to know. And the last thing I want is for you to regret bringing me here."

"If that's how you feel, then that's how you feel. Never be sorry for that, Hans," she says quietly. "I just didn't realize you felt so…"

At this, he sighs and closes his eyes. "C'mon, Elsa. You knew. You've known. I didn't think I was being vague about it."

She doesn't say anything for a moment. "No one has told me they feel that for me."

"Sure they have," he says, smirking and turning to face her. She's now sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down toward the floor. "Perhaps not as politely. Maybe a bit less forthright and with their hand holding."

At his words, Elsa blushes. "Be that as it may, no one has been as forthcoming."

"Probably because they didn't share a correspondence with you for two years."

She smiles a little. He crosses his arms and looks out the window.

She doesn't speak for a while, and Hans takes a deep breath. He steels himself with determination for the words he will say to her. When he's satisfied with them, he turns around. She's standing before him, much closer than the distance between him and the bed, and he promptly loses any and all determination for the words he has immediately forgotten.

"Elsa…" he says.

She places a few, gentle fingers on his chest. "You're right, Hans. I know you're trying to protect me, in your own way. Protecting me from you, warning me, reminding me of how I'm lowering my guard and my judgment. But…" she trails. She leaves icy fingerprints on his chest, and she glances down at his attire, the black and green and purple coalescing into the crest of their home. "You do look rather dashing in Arendelle's colors."

His stomach bottoms out. His hand comes up to grasp her own, and he leans forward, unable to help himself. He caresses her neck with a kiss. Her skin is soft and smooth and crisp like winter. He presses his lips to her ear.

"Give me time. Let me prove myself to you and everyone else. Please."

"Isn't that what we agreed on? Why I brought you here?" she whispers.

"Yes, but…" he says. "Now, it's real. It's more real than ever. I'm not going to screw it up again."

She briefly smiles at him. "And that's why I must leave you, isn't it?"

"I don't want you to leave. I really, really don't," he says, pressing his forehead against her temple. "But yes. You need to protect your honor and your respect amongst your loyal workers, Elsa."

"I know," she sighs, and it sounds like a groan of frustration. "Trust me, I know."

"Good," he says. It doesn't make it any easier, knowing what's best and wanting what isn't.

She backs away from him, going toward the door. She presses against it, her hands on the doorknob, and faces him. "What was it you said? You want to throw me on your bed and rip my clothes off?"

Hans immediately turns bright red. Her small smirk and the mischievous look in her eyes strum a burning cord of titillation in the middle of his abdomen. His throat goes dry and he has to clear it.

"Don't be such a tease," he rasps. "You know exactly what you do to me."

"Hm, no, I don't really think I do, actually, Hans," she says, and while she's teasing, she also sounds honest. "Maybe you can clarify sometime soon. Relieve me of my curiosity."

A myriad of thoughts rush through his mind, each one more provoking than the last. Hans shakes his head, but he smiles. "Get out of here, Your Majesty."

She laughs, opens the door, and slips into the hallway, her chill lingering in his room. Her fingerprints melt into his chest.

* * *

The next few months blur together in a mishmash of activity. Hans is rotated around the castle just as he was on the fields back on the Southern Isles. The first month, he's trained in the kitchens with Helga, of whom he can never satisfy. He messes up a measurement here, or he overlooks cleaning something correctly there. She swats at him with a towel, slapping his head or his behind. Her accent is a thick, mixture of Finish and English, and half the time Hans has to guess what she's saying.

Elsa visits him nearly every night the first week he's there. She makes sure everyone is as accommodating as possible towards him, and she makes sure he has everything he needs—which he feels is unnecessary as he doesn't need anything. He has to give a wide berth between both him and Elsa when she's in his chambers—because of the simmer, the heat clashing with her ice, the tension on the thread that connects him to her. She's always so comforting to see at the end of his long working days, and he wonders how he was able to survive all those months in his basement room without her.

She keeps her distance, too, but she always toes the line. She smiles at him and occasionally touches his chest—which drives him crazy. She does it on purpose. It's how she flirts with him, he's learned. She acts coy, she teases him, she laughs at his blunders with Helga that he tells her about. When they kiss, they keep it brief. It is their own, wordlessly acknowledged abstinence.

Anna runs into him multiple times. It is too frequent to be a coincidence. During the first month, she'd come into the kitchens, cross her arms and sit on the counter. Helga wouldn't say anything, but Hans noticed her screw her lips together to refrain from whipping Anna with a towel, too. It gave Hans satisfaction to know Helga's opinion was not stemmed by Anna's title of royalty.

"Failing miserably, aren't you Prince Hans?" Anna says on one of these days, squinting her eyes at him. "Helga, is he a good student?"

"Eh," Helga says indifferently, busying herself with chopping the vegetables for dinner. "He's fine. Mediocre. Pah."

Hans smiles a bit at Helga's answer. Day one, he'd been horrific. Mediocre feels levels above.

"Mediocre? Thank you, Helga. I'm learning from the best," Hans says. Helga cuts her eyes at him.

"You better not burn the carrots, or I will whip you," she says, waving her towel.

"I knew he'd be terrible," Anna grins. "Helga, make sure you let him suffer. And make sure he doesn't poison our food."

Helga scoffs. "No poison, Princess Anna. Hans is daft. Would not know how to mix poison with food."

"Hey!" Hans protests. "I'm not daft! But you're right, I wouldn't know how to mix poison." Hans glances to Anna from his position over the dirty dishes. "I wouldn't want to, anyway."

"Hmph," Anna says, jumping off the counter. "Sure. You say a lot of things, Hans. Don't worry. I'm still watching every move you make."

Her voice lilts in a menacing way. Hans gives her a smile.

"I would hope so. Did you know I love when princesses watch me? Makes me feel important."

She rolls her eyes. "Ugh. Please. Save it for Elsa. Actually, don't. She doesn't need to babysit you. She has too many other important things to attend to, like delegation and trade agreements and courting."

At that, Hans pauses on a dirty dish. He forces himself to continue.

"Ah. Yes. I don't want to waste any of her time."

"As you shouldn't," Anna says, placing her hands on her hips. "Besides, she requires attention from the most important princes and dukes. She doesn't need to waste her time on felons like you."

Hans places the dish onto the drying rack, moving to the next. "You're right. She doesn't."

Anna walks over to him, leaning against the counter beside the sink. She peers at him. He looks at her then looks away.

"Does that make you sad, Hans? Knowing she's a queen and so far above you?"

Hans swallows. The words prickle at his most intimate insecurities. "I want what's best for her, Princess. It doesn't matter how I feel or what I want."

Anna peers at him for a moment longer before she slowly nods.

"She tried to explain to me, you know. About the letters. I read some of them."

Hans feels his eyes widen slightly before he tries to recover. He clears his throat. "Oh, really?"

Anna shrugs one shoulder. "Sure. It was "evidence"," she air quotes. "It always helps to get a second opinion, and Elsa definitely needed one."

Hans focuses on the dishes to ignore his embarrassment at the thought of Anna reading his letters. "Yeah, well, I'm not sure how much stake you can put into an already _biased_ second opinion."

Anna huffs. "Whatever. A biased opinion was warranted. You'll always be homicidal to me. The letters were a nice touch, but I know how you betray confidences, Hans. Just because you wrote a few nice things doesn't mean you're suddenly a better person."

The doubts swell in Hans' chest. He presses his lips together. He agrees with her. He realizes how scarily easy it _is_ to agree with her.

"Yeah. I know, Princess. It will never make me a better person."

Anna stares at him, and she shifts. "Are you not going to argue?"

"What's the point?" he says, placing another dish onto the rack. "It's not as if you'll believe me if I try. Let me do my work and let me serve you so I can prove that I can be better."

Anna blinks at him. "Okay. Fine. But remember, I'm always watching you. So don't even think about any funny business."

He sighs, suddenly deflated. The scrubbing of dishes is methodical and soothing. He rinses the plate until its clean, and then he cleans it again.

"Hey, are you listening to me, prisoner Hans? Also, you've cleaned that plate already."

Hans places the plate loudly onto the drying rack. "Yes, I heard you, Princess Anna. And yes, I know. I am trying to get better at cleaning up messes. You know what that's like, since you have ample experience."

Anna glares at him. "If _you_ didn't exist in the first place—"

"If you hadn't been so naïve—"

"If you hadn't been _insane_ —"

"If you hadn't been so _trusting_ of everyone—"

She groans loudly in frustration. "Okay, look. We could argue all day. We probably won't ever see eye to eye on things, not least of all because you're a sociopathic creep. However," she emphasizes, pointing at him. "You are here because Elsa allows it, and I respect Elsa. I _love_ Elsa. She's tried to explain to me the potential she sees in you, and she's tried to convince me time and again to try. But no matter how much I love her, I can't allow myself to fully trust her when it comes to you. You tried to _kill_ her. How am I ever supposed to see any potential in you?"

Hans grips a handle of a fork in the dishwater. He stares at the water, and he can see a glimpse of his reflection. He moves his hands, and the ripples erase it.

"I don't expect you to, Princess Anna. I don't expect it from anyone."

Anna shifts again. "Really? That's all you're going to say?"

"There's nothing else I can say, Princess."

She crosses her arms, scrunching her nose at him as if she's smelled something off-putting.

"Hmph. Keep cleaning up your mess, then. Helga, I don't care how daft you think he is. Make sure he doesn't poison our dinner."

"Yes, Princess Anna."

When Anna whirlwinds out of the kitchen, Helga turns a large, brown eye over Hans.

"She hates you."

Hans lets out an abrupt laugh. "Yes, she does. How could you tell?"

She whacks him with the towel at the sarcasm, but it isn't sharp or painful.

"Pah. You not so bad. But there is no room for poison in kitchens."

Hans continues to clean. Her words pluck a smile out of him. "I know, Helga."

The second month, he's working in the stables. The animals seem to like him much more than the workers, and he tends to have conversations with the horses rather than the stable hands. They give him the most laborious and lower tiered jobs—in other words, the jobs no one wants. He cleans the stables, shovels the cow pies, cleans the horses hooves. A few times, he was knocked over by them when his grip wasn't strong enough, and he landed in a pile of shit. He didn't live that one down for weeks.

The third month, Hans works in the fields. The work is the most satisfying and it comes to him most naturally, but he finds himself missing the knickers and huffs from the horses and the conversations, both the silent ones and the murmurs of content.

One of those evenings during his third month, Elsa visits Hans. Her visits are not as frequent as they were the first month, but that is the consequence of a queen's rule. She doesn't have enough time in a day to do everything she would like, visiting her prisoner-turned-servant notwithstanding.

"Anna has told me she tried talking to you," Elsa says, sitting at his desk.

"She's talked to me several times, actually," Hans answers. "And she didn't _try._ She _did."_

Elsa sighs. "Still not fans of each other, I see."

"I'm not sure if we'll ever come to that point."

"I know," she frowns. "I still can't help hoping."

Hans shakes his head. "As long as she loves you, she won't ever like me. I think that's something widely accepted."

Elsa frowns deeper.

Hans walks up to her and places his hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Elsa. It's not a big deal. At least half the people in this castle won't trust me, ever. It doesn't matter that I don't want that. It just is."

"Yes, but—" she sighs. "It's unfair. They don't even give you a chance."

Hans scoffs a laugh. "Elsa, I gave up my chance when I tried to _kill_ you, you know."

She pushes at him before grabbing his hand. "Yes…but you don't want to kill me, now."

He leans down to kiss her palm. "I mostly just want to see you."

"Me too."

"Being a queen is a full time job."

"It mostly feels like too many hoops to jump through before I can do anything substantial."

"You should threaten everyone with icicle impalement. I'm sure that'll speed things along."

She laughs. "If only it was that easy. I would love to do that with some of the delegates."

"I still say you should. A show of power, strike some fear in the hearts of men, that kind of thing."

"Maybe one of these days," she smiles.

Hans glances off to the side. "I also heard some suitors have been making their interests known in the kingdom. Again."

She looks up at him. "You have, have you?"

He shrugs. "The servants love to gossip about your courtships and potential interests. I hear a lot of things."

"Mm," she hums. She runs her fingers over his knuckles. "They come and go all the time. It's in part due to the kingdom's burgeoning success, but it's also because I'm…unspoken for."

"Of course," Hans says. "I would be surprised if you weren't getting any attention."

Her eyes rove over him, and he shifts under her stare.

"Have they been sending you any love letters?" he asks.

She shakes her head, looking abashed. "Oh, no, not like that. The letters they do send are all very stiff and polite."

Hans sneers. "How boring."

"Very," she says. "Compared to yours, I hardly give them a glance."

"I have a particular way with words. One of a kind."

"About that…" she says, looking at his desk curiously. "Have you written anymore?"

"Letters?" he asks. "Actually…no. I found that I haven't needed to. I see you so often that it's…stemmed my need, I think."

"It has certainly been a change of pace, knowing that you're near enough to talk with, even if it's late in the evening."

"I'm surprised your guards let you in here at this hour. Don't they think we're up to no good?"

She smirks at him. "I'm sure."

Hans glances down at their fingers, still lingering together, and he imagines them running up his neck, her nails grazing his skin. His stomach ties itself into knots.

There is a pause between them, both glancing at their palms.

Elsa finally says, tentatively, "The suitors…does it bother you?"

He opens his mouth before thinking better about it. He closes it and slips his hand out of hers, walking backwards to his bed again. "I have no place to state one way or another."

She furrows her brows at him. "Of course you do, Hans. We've—I've…"

He gives her a sad smile. "You ever hear of that saying, the heir and the spare? Since Princess Anna was second born, there is no pressure on her to marry within royalty. You're the true heir, so that means it will only be acceptable to…" He can't bring himself to say _marry._ "…Court someone who maintains the same status as you, Elsa."

At this, she stares hard at him. Her eyes almost glow a frosty blue-green. "You are still a prince, Hans."

He rubs the back of his neck. "I don't think being a stable boy equates to a prince."

"You're being ridiculous."

"I haven't been a prince in a long time, Elsa."

"Is that what your father said?"

Hans blinks. He feels his shoulders begin to rise to his ears. "It doesn't matter what he said. It was three years ago. All I know is that they would never deign me with the title again. Besides, I'm as good as a pauper. I don't have anything to support my name, anyway."

Elsa purses her lips. "You've been thinking about this."

Hans glances down to the floor, pushing his palms into the edges of the bed.

"Yes."

"And you think you're worth nothing?"

"I _know_ I'm worth nothing. At least, not right now." He pauses. "I have plans."

Her eyebrows raise. "You do? What kind of plans?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Mostly ideas. Nothing concrete. Nothing big. You'll know when I get there."

She gives him a bemused look. "Why are you being so vague? You can tell me."

_Disappointment. Failure._ The words ring through his mind, and he's too ashamed to say them in front of her. It's been three months, and it still doesn't feel like he's climbed out of the netting of those feelings wrapped around his heart.

"I'll tell you eventually. I just, ah…" he trails, floundering. He sighs.

Elsa, however, needs nothing more. "Okay. I'll be waiting."

He smiles at her, grateful. He feels that icy burn of her understanding settling over him with magnified intensity.

She runs a finger over his neglected writing desk. "I wanted to tell you. Anna is getting married to Kristoff within the next six months."

Hans blinks. "Married? I didn't hear this in the gossip."

"Yes," she chuckles at his shock. "I think everyone's known it would happen for so long that it isn't news anymore. You've seen Kristoff, but I don't believe you've been formally introduced. We'll remedy that soon."

Hans sits back on his hands. "Always has a reindeer? And a sled? Sells ice?"

"That's the one."

"You know, I never got that. He sells ice, but you could make it for free for everyone."

Elsa shakes her head, smiling. "First off, that would be very exhausting making giant ice cubes for a whole kingdom and then some. Secondly, he's very good at his job."

"If you say so."

"Anyway, it will be an autumn wedding. We'll hold the ceremony in the chapel, but the reception will be in the castle. Everyone in the kingdom will be invited. Anna's already making me help her with the planning."

"You could always hire someone to do it, since you're Queen and all."

She chuckles. "Well, yes, but it's actually been kind of fun. Helping her pick out her dress, her flower bouquet arrangement, color scheme. It's still in the very early stages, so I'm sure I'll get tired of her popping into my office to talk about it, but right now it's been nice."

"Yeah, I'm sure by week three it'll start to get tedious."

"Anna is nothing if not tenacious. She'll probably have everything planned within the next month. Or have it all planned and then decide to change the entire thing."

"That would be impressive," Hans says. He pauses as he mulls over something. "I'm guessing you have a lot of suitors wanting to be your escort to the wedding."

"It's not public, yet. No one knows."

"Ah," Hans says. It's the perfect moment to ask. It feels like it's almost expected in the air as they glance at one another. "Would you... like to be escorted to the reception with me?"

At that, Elsa smiles brilliantly. Hans' breath catches.

"Yes. I would like that very much."

Hans has to clear his throat. "Great. I look forward to it."

Elsa stands and makes her way over to him. She sits beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

"You're sweet when you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"Oh, excuse me. Unsure, then."

Hans scoffs. "I knew you'd say yes."

"Such arrogance."

"I told you arrogance was part of my charm."

They lean toward each other. Their noses touch. Elsa's hand finds the seam of his plain waistcoat and he allows his hand to rest on the mattress around her back, grazing her hip.

"I guess I do find it a bit attractive."

"You do?"

"Mm," she hums. "Especially when you use it as a front for your nervousness."

He laughs softly before he kisses her. Her hands crawl up to his shoulders and his hand grips her hip. She shimmies onto his lap, straddling him. The taut string of tension between them pulls and burns. Their soft kiss becomes deeper, his tongue running along the line of her lips, her mouth wet and warm. She sighs into him, a cool breath of frost. His heart is a thundering hammer, the space between them an electric ball of heat.

Dizzy with a lack of air, Hans realizes they have fallen back onto the bed. Elsa is pressed on top of him, and he can feel every curve against him. The soft pressure of her breasts, the expanse of her rib cage, the stretch of her stomach.

"Elsa," he breathes. She leans back a little, and he sees her half-lidded eyes, the darkened blue of her irises. They are glassy, almost smoky with desire, and he knows they mirror his own.

"I know," she whispers, her voice scratchy. "We should stop."

_I don't want to stop._

He wants to live in this moment forever. He wants to touch her skin under the folds of her dress. He wants to give her everything.

"Yeah," he says. "We should."

They catch their breath for a moment. They look at each other. Hans takes her in up close. There is a line of rouge in her cheeks, her eyes a glimmering blue, her hair a platinum shock. He knows right then.

He must give her the letters. Soon. Very soon.


	34. Chapter 34

The next day, Hans takes Kai aside during their short break for lunch in the kitchens. He braces himself for a rejection, but he figures if he's persistent enough, he'll be able to at least try.

"I know I've only been here a few months," Hans begins. "But I would like to apply to be a guard and soldier."

Kai never gives away what he's feeling. He almost reminds Hans of his mother, which is a bit unsettling. He is a cool cucumber. At Hans' question, however, his eyebrow twitches once.

"A guard?"

"Yes," Hans says. "As much as I like cleaning dishes and shoveling horse shit around, I think my talents would be better placed in the protection of the kingdom."

Kai looks him over. It is lengthy and uncomfortable. Hans tries not to squirm.

"Have you mentioned this to Her Majesty?"

Hans shakes his head. "No. I didn't want to burden her with this. I wanted to see what you thought, without anyone else's opinion on the matter."

"You do realize," Kai says, "that Princess Anna will never agree to this? Even if the Chief accepts your application, and if you pass through the psychological tests, the chance for you to be deemed mentally and physically capable is slim."

"Yes, I understand. However, while it is the final judgment of Her Majesty and Princess Anna, I had hoped I would be able to at least participate in the application process. I believed your opinion would matter, as well."

Kai gives a brief nod. "Our opinion will matter somewhat, as I do see you and your work most often. But it will also be Chief Gerald's main decision. His judgment of you will be the most important. He will be the one to approach Her Majesty and Princess Anna."

"Certainly," Hans says.

The week after that, Hans has a meeting with the Chief, himself. It dawns on Hans who the man turns out to be. He is very familiar, because Hans has met him before. He was part of Elsa's detail when she came to visit him over a year ago.

"Hans Westergaard," Chief Gerald greets him, his voice as stern as the line of his mustache.

"Chief," Hans greets back, nodding his head in a bow. They are in the courtyards, where most of the guards have their training sessions. Hans has watched them occasionally between jobs or during his down time. They work on different drills, practice hand-to-hand combat or sword fighting, or they practice combat while on horseback. Some will practice with bows and arrows, others with knife throwing.

"I understand you would like to apply to become a guard and soldier for the kingdom of Arendelle," Chief Gerald says. "May I ask what your motive is?"

Hans crosses his arms behind his back. "No motive, sir. I only want to add my talents to protecting Queen Elsa."

Chief Gerald stares at him. "And I am to believe you, Mister Westergaard?"

Hans stares back. He will not be cowed. Chief Gerald's stare, while hard and severe, is leagues softer than his father's. This is, perhaps, the only moment he's ever been grateful for his father's harsh and critical punishments.

"I don't suppose you will," Hans says. "But I would like to be given an opportunity to prove my worth."

"It is very presumptuous of a prisoner to think he may be given an opportunity this large in scale. To put a sword in your hands? A bow and arrow? Who am I to believe you will not choose to take one of our beloved ruler's lives away from us?"

Hans bristles, feeling his blood begin to boil. He clenches his jaw.

"Queen Elsa saw something in me, and that is why she brought me here. I owe her my life. I would never do anything to harm her."

"Never? A bold statement, Mister Westergaard. Queen Elsa is not one to be easily persuaded, and you are correct. You do owe her your life." Chief Gerald looks out to a group of his guards clashing swords. They ring through the field like metallic drums. "I, for one, trust Her Majesty's judgment, her youth notwithstanding. I was also able to witness her visit to see you, Mister Westergaard, if you remember."

"I remember well, Chief," Hans says, curling his hands behind his back.

Chief Gerald eyes him, his gaze steeped in condescension and steel. "I've been in charge of this group of men for a long time. I served Queen Elsa's parents before her reign. I watched her and Princess Anna grow up. I watched their transition into orphans and into young adulthood. I watched how Queen Elsa acted around you, a prisoner of your own family, and I could see how you saw her. I didn't like you and her walking the farmlands together without your shackles. I imagined every instance of you losing your sanity, as you had before. I was ready to kill you that day. I had wanted to kill you every day of your imprisonment. So you can imagine, I'm sure, how surprised I was when you looked at our Queen as if she was your own. Your reverence was obvious. I realized those two days of her visit that you were _her_ prisoner, and that it hadn't happened overnight. I'm trained to see malice, Mister Westergaard. Malice, deception, and lies. It made me suspicious to not find any of those in you. I wanted to interrogate you. I wanted to tease out your hidden ploy. I wanted to peel you back, and I still do. I will flay you alive during this training, and I want you to know that," he says, a threat as much as a plain statement. "That being said, it will give me great pleasure to accept your application, because it will give me ample opportunity to see who you really are. If there is any more deceit in you, it will be revealed in these training grounds."

Hans stares hard at him. Chief Gerald stares back.

Finally, Hans says, "She is my Queen just as much as she is yours."

"Then this is your chance to truly show it, isn't it?" His eyes peer over Hans. "Princess Anna has already told me of her disapproval with you being trained as a guard and soldier. Queen Elsa is very supportive in putting you in whichever position you may thrive. Two strikingly different opinions. I will put you through the paces before I give them a preliminary report, you understand."

"Yes, sir."

Chief Gerald cocks his head to the side. "There are padded uniforms and practice swords in the side house. Get dressed. You'll begin your first session with me."

Hans learns that day, along with the next few weeks, that he is very out of practice with a sword. And combat. And horse riding. Things he never thought he'd have so much difficulty in performing.

He is humbled by his lack of cardiovascular fitness and his atrocious reaction time. He can barely counter, and he has trouble reading and anticipating attacks. His heavy lifting with labor, while good with creating a bulkier, more intimidating figure, did not help with agility.

His schedule changes drastically. He must wake up at 5 am and run three laps around the castle. He goes through the morning training curriculum with the other, already established guards. The do push-ups, rope climbing, sparring, sword fights, and archery practice. Hans can't remember if he had ever held a bow, much less fired off an arrow.

The other soldiers call him derogatory names. Some of them stick longer than others, like the Failed Guillotine or the Thirteenth Prick of the Isles. The Abominable Ass Kisser. The Southern Weasel. The list is endless. They fuel Hans' anger, but he's not good enough to beat them in the fights yet, and that's probably more shameful than anything else.

The thread of pride he's kept so closely to his heart becomes more and more frayed with each landed punch to his jaw and his abdomen. He practices with a wooden sword until he becomes better acquainted with the forms and movements, and he would have died about a hundred times each day had they used real swords. He lands in the dirt. He skins his elbows and his knees. He has a welt on his cheekbone that lasts for two weeks.

"What happened?" Elsa asks him one night when she visits him during that first month of practice. She presses two chilled fingers on his welt, and it is the most blissful type of reprieve. He sighs.

"I fell."

"You fell?"

"Yeah. Tripped on a rock. Wasn't paying attention."

She appraises him, but she says nothing more. She gives him a gentle kiss to his cheek. He smiles at her.

"Be more careful next time," she tells him.

It's not for another month until he finally improves enough to beat a soldier in the field. It feels like a mild triumph, and when he gets back to his room that evening, he pulls out a paper onto his neglected writing desk.

* * *

Elsa,

I want to show you my letters. I've attached the first one. It's when I still didn't like you. It's my reply to your fictitious butchering of my character, a long time ago.

Hans

* * *

Dearest Elsa,

Your ways of mocking and ridiculing my character are always endlessly amusing. Each time I read one of your insults, it gives me a new way of viewing myself. It adds on, layer by layer, but dry and brittle like a cake without frosting. Do you feel enjoyment as you write these words about me? Do you secretly like to ridicule others behind closed doors? You had been an isolated hermit, a recluse for years, so I can only imagine you've judged the people outside your window, watching them go about their lives, and eagerly finding their flaws and missteps and knowing you are so far above their sorry little lives as the rightful Queen that you are.

I did not expect you to give me a positive answer. Of course I'd never be able to love anyone but myself. Call me arrogant and narcissistic again—but perhaps you've missed that the only thing I could love about myself is my reflection, because it has helped me hide the monster I am, the ugly thing inside me that will never go away.

* * *

It's ironic, he thinks, how he can only look at his reflection for so long before he becomes uncomfortable. His skin is yellowed with bruises, his jaw sharpened with time and labor. His eyes look too much like his mother when he observes himself, empty and inscrutable. He doesn't feel much when he looks over his body, his face, his reflection, but he feels the fire of determination feeding inside his belly like a monster. But this monster feels different than the one before, as though it has evolved, just as it feels different when sitting at the dinner table surrounded by servants. This monster doesn't want power or approval. When once he felt like he was drowning, like a wound was bleeding and fresh on his heart, his love is beginning to feel like he's being eaten alive. He didn't think it could get any _more_ than before, but now he knows it can and it has and it will.

He wants to be good enough, and he thinks, this time, he might succeed. He might succeed because he's not doing it for himself.

He's doing it for someone else.

* * *

In his second month of training, Hans sends his second letter.

Dear Elsa,

I've found myself thinking about you every day. I've made myself make tally marks whenever you pop up in my thoughts or my brief conversations with my guard. It's a bit embarrassing. I guess it's because these letters are the only thing I spend my time on, other than manning the fields. That's the thing about the outside labor. There is no thought to it. It is mindless work. Once the routine is down, my hands work on their own, disconnected from the control of my mind, so my thoughts have plenty of time to wander.

So while my mind can wander on everything I read or the news that reaches me or the conversations I hear between the guards about how the Isles are faring, it always seems to only want to think about you.

* * *

In his third month of training, Anna spews out her tea.

"He's _what?"_

Chief Gerald shifts his weight. Elsa has never seen him look so…uncertain.

"Mister Westergaard has been going through our application process, Princess Anna, Queen Elsa."

Anna slams her teacup down. The table rattles on its thin legs. "And you didn't think to tell us about it? Your rulers? Not even _Elsa?"_

Elsa sighs, placing a hand on Anna's arm. "I must say, Chief Gerald, I am a bit perplexed at your decision to keep mum. Please explain to us as to why this was your decision."

Elsa has to admit that she is surprised by this. Not only has no one come forth to tell her, nor has she heard any gossip in the hallways. Usually Elena, Anna's personal servant, runs her mouth a mile a minute, and not even she had given a whisper to what Hans had been up to. And Hans…

Hans didn't tell her, either. Her stomach becomes a bit unsettled. She thinks about the welt on his cheek. How he occasionally rubbed at his side during that first month he would have been in training. All the signs were there, but he never said a word.

Chief Gerald clasps his hands behind him, puffing out his chest as confidently as he can muster. "Forgive me, Your Majesties. I knew how both of your opinions differed on the subject. I knew you both would have had a hard time coming to a conclusion on Mister Westergaard participating. What with Princess Anna's upcoming wedding preparations and your constant duties, Queen Elsa, I did not want to burden you two with a merely inconsequential decision over Mister Westergaard's involvement in the training."

"Inconsequential…" Anna mutters under her breath, grumbling the word. Her frown is becoming menacing, and Elsa tightens her grip on Anna's arm.

"I saw this to be an opportunity for myself to unravel Mister Westergaard's motives and his character. You both are aware of my dislike and distrust for the fellow. He came to me willingly. It was my duty to monitor him and protect you, along with the kingdom. I will also disclose that this training was never a true test. I was going to fail him, no matter how he did through the sessions, as he is high-risk and a threat."

Anna sighs, throwing her arms up. "And here I thought you lost all sense, Gerald!"

Elsa looks between Anna and the chief. "You were going to fail him?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

She tries to hide her disappointment. Hans had talked to her about sword fighting, how much he had enjoyed it before when he had been able to practice it. She thinks about his vaguely mentioned _plan_ and wonders if this is it. Finding a way to give himself a title. Once a guard, knighthood is obtainable.

"My duties obligate me to give you both the preliminary reports. I…I hope you can forgive me for keeping this from you," Chief Gerald continues.

Anna waves her hand. "Of course we forgive you, Gerald! You've always had our backs. I understand why you wanted to test him independently. I probably would have done it, too."

Elsa stares at a spot on the floor. She must clench her fist to avoid forming a ball of splintered ice. She isn't wearing her gloves, so the frost begins to creep up her wrist to her elbow.

"Be that as it may," Elsa starts, and she can hear Anna worriedly say her name, noticing the frost. "I am still your Queen, Gerald. You are to notify me of any and all changes within the kingdom, no matter how minuscule or _inconsequential_ and no matter how self-serving. This was accomplished without my knowledge. You do this again, and it will be treason."

Anna gasps. "Elsa!"

Chief Gerald wavers. "Your Highness…"

"Do you understand, Gerald?"

At this, she sees him swallow. He glances to the floor. "Yes, Your Highness."

"Good," she says. The ice vanishes. "Now, on to the preliminary report."

He nods, clearing his throat. "Yes, Your Highness. The first two months, Mister Westergaard was very average. He required intense reconditioning and agility training. He did not excel in any of the fighting sessions or the brawls. I did not think he would last for very long. In fact, I was surprised he stayed for longer than six weeks."

Anna starts to smile, but at the look on Elsa's face, she stops.

"Continue," Elsa says.

"In his ninth week, he began to excel. He started to increase his wins in the different training drills. He ran a record time during the three lap run around the castle. In his eleventh week, he even beat Igor in a brawl, which…impressed me. Igor is one of our best."

Elsa sits up straighter at this. Anna watches her reaction.

"This week, his twelfth week, he remains undefeated. I'm…hard-pressed to admit this, Your Highnesses, but I believe Mister Westergaard is becoming one hell of a fighter. I am to interrogate him today. Within the next few weeks, he will be scheduled for the psychological testing, if you both agree he shall continue."

Elsa begins to smile. Anna bites her lip.

"Well," Elsa says. "He's sounding quite impressive. I, for one, am interested in how the interrogation will go. I say he continue. Anna? What say you?"

They both look at each other. Anna sighs.

"You know I don't want him to, Elsa…"

"Yes," Elsa says. "But he's already come so far. What's the harm in finishing? Besides, the psychological testing is arguably the hardest part. Don't you want him to go through that, Anna?"

Anna begins to frown. "Well…I mean…"

"You both dislike him," Elsa says, her voice tense. "I thought you both would have loved to put him through something like that."

"Oh, Elsa," Anna says quietly. "Don't be mad. I know this isn't ideal…"

Elsa cuts her eyes to Gerald. "Do it. Interrogate him. Put him through the rest of your paces. You were already going to fail him, weren't you? Even without our input?" Elsa stands and walks up to Gerald. He is as still as a coffin. "Bring me the results when you're done. That's an order."

"Y-yes, Your Highness."

"I appreciate your concern for us about him, Gerald," Elsa says. "But you forget. He is still _my_ prisoner. I am still _your_ Queen." Ice unravels around her. It hangs over them like an insidious umbrella.

He nods, stilted. "Yes, Your Highness."

"You are dismissed."

He exhales a breath, bows, and leaves the room.

"I forget how scary you can be, Elsa," Anna says, giving her a soft smile. "That was pretty amazing."

Elsa shakes her head. "Oh, Anna. I got so angry. That wasn't amazing. Gerald was just being the same old, overprotective Chief of Guard. I was too hard on him."

"Don't say that, Elsa. All you did was lay down the law. I was surprised at first, but you intimidated the heck out of him! I bet he has to go change his pants."

Elsa laughs, coming around to sit beside Anna on the settee again. "I understand where both of you are coming from. But it doesn't mean I don't wish you trusted him a little bit."

Anna grabs Elsa's hand and sighs. "I know, Elsa. I'm sorry. It'll just take time or...Several acts of selfless sacrifices?"

"Anna."

"You know what I mean, Elsa. I just...I don't want him to hurt you again. He can't hurt you again."

Elsa squeezes her hand. "He won't. He's better than you think."

"That's not saying much."

"You've read some of his letters."

"Yeah, but...they're letters."

"He began to admit a lot of things..."

"Or he was lying..."

Elsa sighs. Anna shrugs sheepishly.

"I'm sorry, Elsa. I'm only in your corner."

Elsa smiles a little. "I know, Anna. Maybe one day you'll see what I do."

"Yeah, see what you do, whatever that is." Anna peers at her. "Wait a second." Elsa is not sure what Anna sees, but her eyes begin to widen. She sits straighter. "Do you... Do you love him?"

Elsa stills. Ice lines her spine. "What?"

"Do you love him?" Anna's grip on her hands tightens exponentially. "Be honest, Elsa. You care about him. You see something in him. That's basically code for it. Do you?"

"I..." she says, stumbling. "I don't know. I care for him, and I certainly feel as though he's a friend, but I..."

Anna observes her for a moment. "You were pretty defensive over him when Gerald came. And you've been encouraging everyone to be and play nice with him. You have a big heart, Elsa. You've been spending a lot of time with him. You visited him all the way in the Southern Isles, and you _still_ haven't told me all the details. You only told me that he showed you the farmlands and how he was an actual prisoner. But..."

Elsa begins to blush. She turns away from her. "I don't know, Anna. I don't know how I feel. When I'm with him, I don't care about what anyone thinks. But when I'm here, doing my duty...I can't help but feel how no one would agree if I admitted to caring about him."

"Elsa, I think everyone knows you care about him. They just don't know to what extent."

Elsa sits back into the cushions. She looks up to the ceiling. "I'll figure it all out soon."

"Elsa, you can talk to me, you know. I haven't been in your shoes, exactly, but I _am_ getting married soon, so I think I understand confused and overwhelming feelings."

Elsa smiles at her. "Have you ever been confused about Kristoff?"

"Okay, good point. It seems like I haven't, but there have been times where I've questioned everything. There are times where I think my heart will burst. Then there are times where he makes me so mad, I want Sven to buck him into a snowdrift. Then I think about how life was without him, and I can't even remember it."

Elsa leans forward and takes Anna into her arms with a hug. "I am very happy for you, Anna. Thank you for those insights. I love you."

"I love you, too. Even if you care about a would be murderer."

At that, Elsa laughs.

* * *

Dear Elsa,

Julian slipped me some whiskey with my dinner, tonight. I think the bloke might actually like me—funnily enough. I literally smell like a pigsty, and the only things we talk about are my brothers and his wife who works in the kitchens. But he gave me whiskey! I haven't had whiskey in—I don't know how long. Before my imprisonment, I'm sure.

My handwriting is appalling. Sorry. I think I'm durnk. Drunk. God, I miss you. What do you even look like? I think I've forgotten. Your face changes in my mind every day. All I can remember is hair and ice. Coldness. Being locked in a cage like how I am now, your hands in specialized cuffs holding back your power.

I keep blinking but everything is blurry. Yeesh. Maybe Julian gave me this whiskey cause he thought I was sad. Do I look sad? I don't know. I feel like I've felt the same way for months. I wish I could look in a mirror sometimes. No I don't.

You're probably with one of those suitors. That's a disgusting thought. I hate them. I'm sure they're fine, but I hate them. It's all illogical. I don't even know why I hate them.

I think I hate them because I want to be them.

* * *

Elsa goes to see Hans that evening. He has a split lip. When he tries to brush away why he has it, Elsa stops him.

"I know what you're doing, Hans."

He pauses and hesitates. "You...you do?"

Elsa nods. "I was given a mandatory, preliminary report today. Chief Gerald says you're doing well in training."

Hans looks well and fully abashed. "I was going to tell you—"

She walks up to him and grabs his chin between her fingers. She inspects his lip, roving her eyes over his face. He has a shadow of a bruise appearing along the orbit of his eye.

"I would have hoped I'd figure it out sooner. You certainly seem much more tired and beaten up when I'm able to come see you."

She lets go of his jaw. He tongues his cut, glancing warily down at her.

"I promise I was going to tell you. I just—"

"Just wanted to prove something?"

He glances off to the side. "Something like that. I didn't want..." he sighs. He looks at her again, and he raises a hand to her face. His fingers graze her cheek. "I didn't want you to know I failed, if I failed. I wanted to try without giving you hope and then losing it. Cowardly, I know. You were going to know about it either way."

He drops his hand, and she gently grabs it, holding it in both of her own.

"Cowardly it may have been," she says, "but you aren't failing. You're winning."

He shrugs a shoulder. "For now. Those guys do everything they can to beat me. I'm waiting on them to get revenge."

Elsa scrunches her nose. "Hopefully not. I'm sure you can beat them, though, if you beat Igor."

He raises a brow. "You know about that?"

"It was part of your report, tough guy."

He chuckles at that. "Hardly. I was just smaller and faster. Igor is a giant."

"Where's your arrogance? I thought you'd be flaunting, telling me exaggerated fighting stories. How you mowed down everyone on the training grounds in two minutes or something ridiculous."

"Maybe I would if I didn't hurt every time I breathed."

"Oh, you poor thing."

"I am a poor thing."

"Where are your bruises?" She asks, running her fingers over his ribs. He winces.

"Yep, you found them."

"Let me ice them."

"If you wanted me to take off my shirt, you only had to ask."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Remind me why I'm so nice to you."

"I honestly have no idea."

He unbuttons the front of his shirt before he gets a funny look on his face.

"Actually, Elsa..." he hesitates. "Is this a good idea?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but her eyes snag on his stomach. She's too distracted by the dark purple and green bruising. The purples are bordered by an angry red.

"Oh, Hans, you weren't kidding," she says, placing a gentle hand against his right ribs. The glow of frost shimmers underneath her hand, emphasizing the broken blood vessels scattered along his abdomen.

He sighs, closing his eyes. "That feels wonderful."

She places her other hand along his middle, mirroring the process of her other hand. She can feel the large artery thumping along his midsection under her palm. She glances up at the blissful look on his face and she smiles.

"How was the interrogation?"

"Hm. Boring."

"Boring?"

"Chief Gerald is hardly intimidating. After growing up with twelve brothers and my parents, no one is intimidating."

"Mm. Not even me?"

"Oh, you're right. I'll make the one exception." He exhales deeply. "If you could do this forever, that would be nice," he mumbles. She giggles.

"Right. Let me put off everything just for you."

"Please? It would be mutually beneficial. You could feel me up and all my pain would be gone."

She repositions her hands on him, and before she can stop herself, she places a kiss in the middle of his chest. He blinks down at her.

"Or you could do that," he says. His eyes are a sudden dark forest green, and they encompass her generously. They make her feel as if he is plucking all of her from a tree. Goosebumps line her arms up to her neck.

She looks down at his chest, and she's not sure which view is better and which is worse. It all makes her feel a bit overwhelmed, like a rush of adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream. She slowly leans forward again, pressing her lips against the divot in his chest. She lingers for longer. She feels him shudder underneath her.

"Damn it, Elsa," he breathes. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you."

She glances up at him. "What? Oh," she says sheepishly. His expression is as taut as a bowstring. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You can do that anytime you'd like," he says, placing his hands on her hips. His voice is gruff, and Elsa feels her neck heat up. Her knees go weak as his fingers dig into her waist. "But remember, it makes me want to..."

Her cheeks redden. "Right. Yes. Something about throwing me onto the…bed."

He kisses her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. Her ice increases, the frost magnifying on his skin, and he huffs, backing away from her abruptly. He turns around, buttoning up his shirt once more. Elsa feels oddly bereft as he stands further away from her. She thinks she's beginning to understand what Hans means when he says he'll lose control.

She rubs her hands down her dress. "I've been receiving your letters," she says, breaking the thickening tension surrounding the room.

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you, but..." he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "I probably won't with those, to be frank."

"Really? Why?"

"They're a bit..." he shrugs. His shoulder blades pinch with discomfort. "You'll see."

"Cryptic," she says, smiling. He finally turns around to look at her, and his eyes are still a shadowy green. Her skin nearly hums as he glances over her.

"I don't mean to be. You know they're different."

"Yes. I like drunken Hans writing."

A curl of red runs over his cheeks. "Ah, yeah. I hadn't had whiskey in years."

"You never told me you hated my suitors. It was good to know your true feelings about them."

He glances off to the side, crossing his arms. "I try to maintain a polite facade when it comes to them. It helps suppress the anger I feel," he says, smiling a little.

She walks up to him. "While I'm here, I could read your next one. Or I could take it with me and read it in my bed. I'm sure I'll let it touch my pillow."

At the words, Hans jolts a bit. His body stiffens. Elsa laughs a little.

"I swear, you're trying to kill me."

"You keep saying that, but I don't know what you mean."

He goes to his dresser and takes out one of the letters. He hands it to her and says, "You should probably get out of here while you still can."

Elsa raises a brow at him. "While I still can?"

His eyes are almost simmering. Elsa think they may be boiling, if eyes could boil. She feels their heat like a pervasive probe, hitting her natural chill with a relentless focus.

"Yeah, Elsa. While you still can."

The intensity of his voice and his stare is almost enough to push her out of the room on their own.

"Okay," she says softly, clearing her throat. "Then I guess I'll bid you a goodnight, Hans."

He nods to her, their eyes lingering on the other.

"Goodnight, Elsa," he says, and she slips through the door, pressing his letter to her chest. She breathes in the air, no longer choking on the thickness of the tension-filled atmosphere, and her mind clears.

She thinks about the color of his eyes for the entire walk to her bedroom.

* * *

Dear Elsa,

This lack of correspondence has really been messing with my mind. I think it's making me crazy. I've been reading a lot more. I usually gravitate toward history or economics, and sometimes psychoanalytical theories. Now, I'm gravitating toward romance? Most of it makes me grimace. I can't read a romance book more than halfway through before putting it away in disgust and picking up a book over past wars. I keep thinking I'll pick up a romance book and enjoy it. That's yet to happen.

* * *

As the months float along and the time to Anna's wedding gets closer, Hans sees Elsa less and less. Between her schedule as Queen and wedding planning, and Hans' arduous hours with training and testing, free time is slim. The days are few and far between when they do get to see one another, but it is a time they both relish. Sometimes, they merely sit with one another and bask in their exhaustion. Other times, they talk about their days. Elsa will always give a comment about Hans' letters, if he has sent her a new one by the time they see each other.

The first visit after his fourth letter, she gives him a book.

"I think you might like this one," Elsa says, handing it to him. "If you find the time to read it."

It's entitled _Pride and Prejudice._ Hans raises an eyebrow at it. "Are you trying to send me a message with this?"

"Of course not," Elsa teases.

* * *

Hans sends his fifth letter a week later.

Elsa,

I keep thinking I lost my chance to know more about you. I'm not sure when my execution is. I don't want to ask Julian, and I don't want to send a missive to my mother to know if they've finally chosen a date. I don't really tend to think about it, but it's been more and more on my mind lately. I think it's because I'm finally realizing all of the things I've missed out on. Kind of like how I'm trying to read those romance novels. I keep seeking something from them, but they are all…dull. Absurd. Boring. A lot of sighing and heaving chests. Not that I don't like thinking about chests heaving, but it is all very…superficial. And when I close them, everything in my life begins to feel much lonelier.

I'm beginning to miss things that were once very easy to do. Riding our horses. Sailing. Standing on the highest hill in town, shopping in the market.

It took me almost two years to finally realize that I'm going to die. I think it was as much denial as it was apathy.

* * *

Then he sends his sixth.

Elsa,

I've found if I place you into the romance books that are very boring and predictable, they begin to become significantly intriguing. Especially if I find one that has a strong female lead, and not one of those damsels in distress, but those can work, too, if you squint. It takes longer to convince myself, but it helps me to actually finish the books if I imagine your face in them.

With the other books that have the stronger females, I usually only begin to see you when the male lead and the female lead begin to argue, fight, and then make up when they—

Okay, great, this is beginning to sound creepy and weird. I take it back. I mostly only see you when they argue and fight. Not when they…you know. I'm beginning to think I _do_ have too much time on my hands.

* * *

And his seventh. It takes him a few more weeks before he slips it under her door, but it helps that he hasn't seen her since his last letter. He misses her, and he thinks she will finally understand what he means when he says she's trying to kill him.

Elsa,

The books are turning out to be a bad idea.

I don't dream very often, nor do I tend to have many nightmares. Now, I think I've done this to myself.

I had a dream for the first time in months, last night. I can't remember what your face looks like when I try to conjure it up on my own, but my subconscious does. I saw your face for the first time in a long time. Even when you appeared that day in the fields, I couldn't make out the physical features very well. It was all still a blur. But last night, it was crystal clear.

I'm going to write out my dream, because I am not close enough to Julian to talk about this, and I'd rather keep it to myself. I may regret writing this out later, but…well, be that as it may. Right now, I need to write it out to make sure I don't go crazy, because it's been in my mind all day, and I actually messed up a row of crops because I was so distracted. I got thirty lashes for that, and it _still_ didn't help. Those damn books.

Anyway. The dream.

I woke up in my basement room. You were lying beside me on my bed pallet. The moonshine covered you from the gated window, and it made your hair seem white and ethereal. It was loosened from your braid, and it seemed like a waterfall. You were looking at me and smiling, your body tangled up in the bedsheets.

One of your hands dragged across my chest, and I realized then that I was naked, and so were you, and yet it all seemed so normal and familiar. Ice trailed along your fingers over me, down my stomach, and your smile was so dazzling and playful. Your hand slipped under the sheet, and you _grabbed_ me, and you said, "Oh, Hans, are you lonely and alone?" You curled into me. "Because you want me so _badly."_

Then you shocked me into ice, and I woke up, sweating and gasping like I couldn't breathe during that entire dream. I was _spent._ I was… I haven't had a dream like that since I was a teenager.

Now that these dreams have started, I fear that they won't stop.

* * *

He slips her his eighth the next day.

Elsa,

I've begun to imagine more and more about what your ice feels like. Ever since that first dream, with your fingers on my chest, dragging across me. It felt like a heart attack in that dream, but also much more, like a shock finally bringing me back to life. To remind me that living is different than existing, even though I'm not sure what the point is. But those moments are blissful when I feel them. I look forward to sleep, because more often than not I get to see you and touch you and feel you.

I think these dreams must be my darkest desires. The things I want most. Perhaps this is only me lusting after what I can't have. I can't say for certain. All I know is that my imagination runs rampant. I wonder about the texture of your skin. Are you cool to the touch, or are you warm and soft? Are my dreams at all close to what reality would be? Would you try to grab me with cold fingers and shock me into life?

I keep thinking about the dazzling smile you give to me, occasionally, and it's enough to make me lose my breath.

I know it's all make believe. I guess that's why it's easy to allow these thoughts to come so often.

* * *

When Elsa reads these letters, she arrives to her bed chambers dead on her feet. When she spies the parchment sitting so innocently on the ground, she is immediately jolted awake. Her heart thunders. She hurriedly changes into her nightgown, finishes her nighttime routine, and slips onto her bed, flipping the letter open to reveal the faded black ink.

She had forgotten how much she craved them after he began to send them. Once their schedule had gotten busier, she always hoped to find a piece of parchment waiting for her at the end of a long day. When she couldn't see him, reading his words were the next best thing—especially as they were beginning to become even more…personal.

By the sixth letter, Elsa begins to realize what Hans meant when he said these letters were _different._ They are exposed and raw. By the seventh, they become very intimate. Elsa reads that seventh letter three times before her heart begins to calm down and before her ice settles into a puddle along her floor. Her abdomen pulsates. The desire she feels is fierce, and she experiences that unfaltering depth—that true passion for someone. It wraps around her like thick ribbons, curling into double knotted bows that are tight and unforgiving.

After receiving that letter, she thinks about writing her own to him. She thinks about it the entire day, though she is never any closer to having a coherent string of words that she would like to send to him—or say to him—and before she knows it, the eighth letter is already lying on her bedroom floor. She has a mind to think he does this on purpose, to keep her from going to see him or writing him her own letter. She wonders how nervous he is to send them. She remembers how he acted that day in his basement cell, how pale he was, how uncertain.

As the days pass, Elsa finds herself going to the easternmost section of the castle, looking out over the training grounds that are further towards the forest line. They are about a quarter mile out of the way, with a handful of barracks lined up in rows, housing equipment, uniforms, armor, and the like. She can't make out the figures as clearly from this distance, but she tries to find Hans' auburn hair. She finds herself at the window more and more during her small reprieves between letter writing to foreign dignitaries, hearing the grievances of her people, and helping Anna choose table decorations.

* * *

One month before the wedding, Hans sends his ninth.

Elsa,

Julian gave me whiskey again, and he patted me on the back. I don't get it. I think he pities me more and more every day. I'm not sure why. I get to talk to a Queen.

This is bad, because I'm not drunk this time, but I'm tipsy enough to write everything down. What I mean is, you said that the suitors have taken a break, and that only lets my mind travel over more and more boundaries. I shouldn't write this down. I should keep it shoved inside my head where no one will ever know about them.

Stupid Julian. Stupid whiskey.

My dreams have become more invasive. Usually, I'm not the one who moves. You're the one freezing me and talking to me, initiating the touches. It's never...it's not overly intimate. It edges along, and it toes the line, but it's never so descriptive. It's more a bundle of sensation and feeling.

They're evolving. They're getting...well, not worse, but if I say _better_ then I'll sound a bit…indecent.

This last dream began with me kissing you. They are all on my bed pallet in my room. The moonlight always streams in to illuminate you. We are never clothed. It usually begins with me glancing to you, and you smiling at me, and then touching me, crawling on top of me, telling me that I want you.

This one had me pulling you closer, kissing you, running my hands through your hair and down your back. The bedsheet was removed between us, and I rolled on top of you, and you wrapped your legs around me, and... This is harder to write out than I thought, even with the liquid courage. I keep pausing, and I keep thinking about it. You'd think that would make it start to be easier, but it's infinitely harder.

I touched your thighs. I touched your breasts. You breathed my name and pulled at my hair, dragging icy nails down my back. I tasted your neck, and shoulder, and stomach, and... You let me taste everything. I don't think I've had a dream quite so vivid or overwhelming.

Good grief. I need a cold bath. Actually, not a cold bath, because that'll still remind me of your ice. What other alternative is there? Nothing?

I need more whiskey.

* * *

Elsa reads it once. Then twice. She places the letter off to the side on her bed and stares up at her ceiling. She imagines all of the words, all of the touches. She thinks about going to see him. She glances at her closed door. She imagines knocking on his bedroom door, him answering, his hair in a disheveled array, eyes bleary from sleep and exhaustion. She imagines him opening the door without a shirt, perhaps sporting a bruise or two. She imagines offering him her ice again, him allowing her inside with the moonlight flowing onto the floorboards. It's the only light illuminating them, gleaming off their eyes. She will press her hands into his chest, his abdomen, trail her fingers down to his waist, tell him how much he wants her. She would grab him and shock him into life with her ice.

_You want me so badly._

Elsa gasps sharply and closes her eyes. She shakes her head. No. No, if she goes, she knows what she'll do. She knows what he'll do. She places a palm on her forehead.

She may want him as badly as he wants her.

* * *

Two weeks before the wedding, he sends her his tenth.

Elsa,

Sometimes, I think Julian knows what's happening to me. I think I stare into space too frequently. He'll ask questions and I don't answer immediately because I wasn't paying attention.

I think it's because of our correspondence. You're visiting, soon. You'll be here sometime in the near future, and I keep thinking about how it will be. Will you find me appalling or appealing? Will it feel like the letters, or will it have all been for naught? Will the dream be broken, will reality seep through the cracks and dismantle all of the hopes I have?

The thing is, it doesn't matter. I think you're wonderful. Even if we can barely say two words to one another when you arrive, I will respect you. I'll continue to carry your words with me until my execution.

I'm almost certain I'll continue to have those dreams of you, your body curving into mine. I can't apologize for that.

* * *

Elsa thinks the last letter he sends is only fitting, in the most ironic sense. Fitting because she's not sure what her first words to him will be. Now that she knows his most intimate thoughts, the descriptions of his lust about her, she wonders if she will be able to say anything at all to him without blushing or stumbling over her words.

"So, Hans is going to escort you to the reception?" Anna asks her the day before the wedding.

"Yes," Elsa says. "That is what we had agreed on a few months prior."

Anna leans forward closely. "And? How are your feelings? Still complicated? Confused? Or have you had any clarity?"

Elsa wrings her hands in her lap. She looks down at them, sighing. "Complicated lingers, still. But I have had more clarity over the past months."

Anna places her chin in her palm. Her eyes gleam. "You have?"

Elsa slowly nods, thinking about how to form her words. She glances off to the side, toward the window. They sit in their tea room. This is the room they always spend lunch hour together when time permits. With the chaos of the wedding's approach, they have not had a proper sit down lunch in quite some time. Now, they are spending one last lunch together, the day before the wedding, just as they had once promised each other long before.

Elsa opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. "Remember…remember when you talked to me about yours and Kristoff's wedding night?"

The gleam in Anna's eyes falters, and her cheeks redden. She sits up and looks over her sister suspiciously.

"Yes…" Anna trails. "And we talked about how it is going to be the most amazing night of my life, even if it starts out kind of awkward and weird? So I should and should not get my hopes up at the same time?"

"Exactly," Elsa smiles. "And how you've told me about the things you would like to do with Kristoff—"

"Sh!" Anna exclaims, glancing around even though their ladies in waiting are outside in the hallway. No servants are in the immediate area. "Not so loud, Elsa! I swear they have ears in the walls!"

Elsa holds back a laugh. "They can't hear us, Anna."

"You don't know that," Anna whispers. "Besides, I don't want to talk about _relations_ with Kristoff in such an open space. Last time, we were in my bedroom. _Anyway_ , where were we going with this conversation again? Your feelings?"

Elsa sighs. "Right. Yes. Well, how you feel about Kristoff and needing to get closer to him…that's how I've been feeling, too."

Anna blinks. "About Hans? You mean, you want to—"

"Sh!" Elsa mimics Anna, suddenly understanding Anna's overreaction a moment before. Anna's lips begin to quiver and so do Elsa's until they both begin to giggle at each other.

"Oh, my god, Elsa!" Anna whispers loudly. "You want to have sex with an almost murderer! And I thought I was ridiculous!"

"Anna!" Elsa whispers back. "I know how it sounds. I've never felt like that for anyone, before. It's not…love, but it's something."

Anna sits back and raises her eyebrows. "Sure, love and lust are different, but they aren't mutually exclusive. I love Kristoff so much, and I want him like crazy all the time. How long have you felt this way?"

Elsa bites her lip. "I didn't realize to what extent until…a few weeks ago. And I haven't been to see him for a while."

"What's a while?"

"Um…" Elsa hesitates. "Six weeks."

"Six weeks!" Anna exclaims. "No wonder you're lusting after him!"

Elsa holds out her hands. "Anna!" she chastises, but then she begins laughing. "You were supposed to stay quiet."

Anna smiles sheepishly. "Right, sorry, got carried away." She shakes her head. "But why? You always visited him once a week, at least."

"It just got…busier and busier. His schedule with training never coincided as well as his servant's hours, and I've been juggling more work with the wedding coming up. And then he started sending me those letters, and I've been trying to figure out how to respond."

"Letters?" Anna asks before her eyes glow with recognition. "Oh. The letters he told you he never sent? _Those_ letters?"

Elsa nods.

"Wait. Is he seducing you? Is he sending subliminal messages?"

Elsa gives her a look.

"Okay, probably not," Anna relents. "Has he declared his undying love in these letters, yet?"

Elsa smiles. "No, Anna. Just more…vulnerable thoughts."

Anna peers at her suspiciously. Thankfully, she doesn't ask her to expand on her vague description. "Okay. Well. Since you'll finally see him tomorrow, tell him something to the effect of having been so busy with me and being a Queen. Or be honest with him. Tell him you don't know what to say. Honesty is the best policy. It's worked with me and Kristoff. Which reminds me!" Anna says, pointing her finger up toward the ceiling. "We're going to have to decide on Hans' final judgment. To guard or not to guard, that is the question."

Elsa frowns. "You already know what I think, Anna. He passed all his testing. Even Gerald said he was fit to become a guard, and that's an important recommendation, at the very least. We both know how severe Gerald is, and I'm surprised he changed his mind all on his own."

That had given Elsa a burning, vibrant streak of pride for Hans. She knew he could do it. She knew.

"True…" Anna trails. "Still. He has one more test to go through with me. _Then_ we can decide."

Elsa frowns deeper. "Another test? What in the world could that be?"

"Eh," Anna says dismissively, waving her hand. "I'll tell you about it later. It'll be soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Who knows?"

"Anna…" Elsa says warningly. "What are you up to?"

"My sweet Elsa, nothing that you have to worry about. All you need to worry about is how you're going to talk to Hans tomorrow, now that you know you want to take him to bed." Anna shudders. "I guess he is good looking, but... That will always be gross to me."

"Anna!" Elsa laughs. "Stop avoiding the question!"

"Like I said, don't worry about it. Anyway, I'm going to go find Kristoff and tell him all about my diabolical plan before I'm forbidden to see him in a few hours. Sorry, Elsa!" she says, jumping up and bolting out the door. "Lunch was great! I'll swing by your room tonight so we can keep talking about what you'll say!"

"Anna! You're the worst!" Elsa calls after her retreating footsteps. But Anna is right. What in the world is she going to say to Hans? Be honest? Tell him how afraid his words make her feel?

_Sorry I haven't seen you for six weeks. Half the time, I was too busy, and the other half I wasn't sure how to respond to your sensual and intimate missives because I think I know how much I care about you, and that is beginning to scare me deeply. Also, can we make out and take off our clothes?_

She blushes to the roots of her hair and falls back onto the settee cushions. Yeah. Sure. Tomorrow will go over just fine.


	35. Chapter 35

Anna is radiant. Elsa fixes her headdress, and she admires her little sister in the mirror. She is every bit the blushing bride. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes are gleaming and bright. Her hair is in a braided updo, with curled wisps framing her face. She stares at herself in the mirror. Their lady servants flit around, making sure every fold of her dress is in place and every eyelash is curled to the right degree.

"This feels very surreal," Anna says, touching her face. "This doesn't even look like me. Who am I?"

Elsa comes up beside her. She places her hands on her shoulder, smiling at Anna's reflection.

"You're still Anna. Just amplified. You're about to become married to the man you love most in the world."

Anna breathes out, and her eyes become a bit teary. She blinks and sniffs, angling her head up. "You're right. I wish mom and dad were here."

Elsa's smile falters. "Yes. Me, too."

Anna grips her hand, squeezing. "I'm so happy you're with me."

Elsa kisses her cheek, much to the objection of one of the servants, who pushes Elsa away to wipe away the shadow of lipstick Elsa left on Anna's cheek. They both laugh.

"I'm happy to be by your side."

Anna touches Elsa's dress. It is cerulean, with lace eyelets decorating the waistline. Anna sniffs again.

"Oh, Anna, please don't cry yet."

"I know!" Anna says, fanning her face with her hands. "I'm trying not to. I just…I just want you to know…if you truly love him—if you truly love him, I won't disapprove anymore."

Elsa blinks, her chest rising with a sharp, surprised breath. "Anna—"

"Gerald approved…somehow. He passed the psych tests. Elena has been telling me he's diligent and finishes his work. She's even told me Helga tolerates him, and we know how Helga tolerates no one in the kitchen."

"That's right. She doesn't."

"I know I've been harsh, and maybe I've been a little bit too overprotective and skeptical…"

Elsa shakes her head. "No, Anna. Don't feel bad about this. I've always known where you were coming from."

Anna sighs. "It makes you sad, Elsa. I hate seeing you sad or disappointed. And if you didn't approve of Kristoff, I'm not sure what I would do."

Elsa smiles. "Well, even after you're married, it doesn't change anything. I'm still on your side. If Kristoff does anything to hurt you, he'll face my wrath."

Anna giggles. "Sounds about right." She smiles up to Elsa. "I'm only going to ask Hans a few questions, okay? That's my last test."

"A few questions? What kind?"

"The important kinds."

Elsa shakes her head exasperatedly. "Fine, Anna. It is your wedding day. You can do anything you please. Just...don't completely obliterate him?"

Anna laughs. "I wouldn't! Well, I would have if circumstances were different. But not today."

"Besides, you have some things you need to tell him, too, right Elsa?" Anna winks, grinning deviously.

She rolls her eyes. "Don't remind me."

Kai knocks on the door, and the lady servants finally let them be.

"Princess Anna. Your Majesty. It's time."

Anna and Elsa look at one another. Grinning, they hook arms and follow Kai out toward the chapel.

* * *

The ceremony goes along without a hitch. Nearly all of Arendelle try their best to cram into the church, almost sitting on top of one another in the pews. Many of the townsfolk begin to cry immediately as Anna makes her way down the aisle. Kristoff doesn't seem to breathe the entire time Anna walks down the carpeted aisle to him. They only see one another.

Kristoff and Anna glow as they stand before each other, holding their hands, looking as shy and bashful and awkward as ever. Elsa can almost see their love for one another like a picture, under the frame of the altar. The waves hit Elsa like a riptide, and her eyes grow misty when they read their vows. Kristoff stumbles a few times, yet it is very endearing. Sven is the best man, holding the ring in his mouth. When he opens his mouth and pushes his tongue out for Kristoff to take the ring, there is a collective groan around the chapel. Elsa and Anna glance at one another and laugh.

All of Kristoff's family are there. All of them. They stand on top of one another and form a pyramid of rock formations that are quite impressive. They are very vocal, too. Kristoff blushes when they cheer and whistle once Kristoff finishes his vows.

Elsa glances over to them when they whistle, smiling. They are aligned against the wall, and Elsa's eyes snag on the servants. She sees Elena, holding her hands against her chest, resting her head on Kai's shoulder with tears streaming down her cheeks. She sees Kai, looking at stoic as ever, with a rare and faint smile gracing his face. She sees Helga, a towel, as always, hanging across her shoulder. She has a busy night ahead of her, What with being in charge of the food for the evening festivities inside the castle. Beside her is Gerald, his arms placed behind his back, glancing around the room for any suspicious behavior.

To Gerald's right is Hans. He is wearing a dark green suit with a purple and gold embroidered waistcoat underneath. It can only be tailored, though it is one that Elsa isn't familiar with. Their eyes catch quite suddenly, and the dark green of the coat bring out the vivid emerald of his eyes. Elsa is struck by their intensity and their saturation. The weeks of their absence from one another feels like a year in the moment. Though he is at least thirty feet away from her, his figure cuts a distinctive silhouette against the mass of the crowd.

She's not sure how long they gaze at one another across the room. She feels a flush bloom across the surface of her skin. He eventually gives her a soft smile. She returns it. Gerald elbows him in the side, and Hans finally glances away to answer him.

When the ceremony finishes, Elsa walks out beside Sven. Sven nudges her palm with his muzzle. She scratches his nose, and he contentedly groans.

"You're a good boy, Sven."

He snorts his thanks, a smile forming along his snout.

Anna and Kristoff get into a carriage to drive them up the road back to the castle. Another smaller carriage awaits for Elsa and Sven, with the harness and hitch loosened and ready for Sven to drive Elsa. A stable hand attaches the bit to Sven.

"I'm going to wait for just a moment," Elsa tells the hand. He bows to her.

"Of course, ma'am."

Several other carriages are parked along the cobblestone street, awaiting patrons to take them down the road. People begin to filter out of the chapel, and soon the courtyard is filled with a mass of bodies. The trolls roll out in a massive rumble, and Grandpapi stops for a moment in front of Elsa.

"A beautiful ceremony, Queen Elsa. You look lovely as ever."

Elsa bows her head. "Thank you, Grandpapi. I'm happy it all went well. Anna and Kristoff love each other very much."

Grandpapi reaches out to take her hand. He kisses the back of it. "You're very much in love, too, my dear."

Elsa blinks, her smile faltering. "What?"

He pats her hand, looking up earnestly to her face. "I've been around long enough. I know love when I see it." He points. "In your eyes, dear. It's all about the eyes."

Elsa nods slowly. She glances up and sees Hans make his way out of the chapel. He walks beside Helga, who seems to be red in the cheeks and blustering about. Hans says something, and she promptly slaps him with her towel. Hans laughs.

"Right there," Grandpapi says, smiling. "He is certainly a lucky man."

Elsa looks back down to him. "That obvious, is it?"

"Love doesn't like to be hidden. And I'm an expert." He winks, rolls back up into a ball, and follows behind toward the rest of his family.

Elsa's stomach flips around like a pancake. She looks up again to see Hans has noticed her, and their eyes catch across the courtyard. She presses her hand to her abdomen, trying to calm her nerves.

_Why am I so nervous, anyway?_ she thinks. _It's not like anything is different. Not really. Just that I know I love him, instead of thinking I might. Not a big deal._

Hans makes his way over to her. Once he's within a few feet, he pauses. He bows.

"Your Majesty."

"Prince Hans."

He smiles, straightening up. His eyes run over her. "Just Hans, Your Majesty."

"Just Elsa, Hans."

His smile fades into a more serious, somber line. "It's good to see you, Elsa."

"I'm...sorry it's been so long."

"That's the way it is, sometimes. It's okay. I'm just glad I had the nerve to ask you to be my date."

Elsa laughs. "Me, too."

He gestures to the carriage behind them. "Shall we?"

He gives her a hand into the carriage, and they take their respective seats beside each other. The seat bench is narrow enough for their legs and hips to touch. Elsa is distracted by the pressure. Suddenly being so close to him after the length of time only seeing him from afar makes her body tie up in a knot.

"I—"

"How—"

They both pause. Elsa pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. Hans chuckles nervously.

"Sorry," he says. "You go."

"I was just wondering how you've been," Elsa begins. She tentatively slips her hand into his. It's warm and calloused, and he threads their fingers together. He brings them up to kiss her knuckles.

"Better now that you're here."

Elsa gives him a look before she laughs. "I haven't heard you say that line before."

"It's new. I was waiting to use it on you today."

"You were?"

Hans dips his head, nuzzling the spot right below her ear with his nose. "It was a long six weeks, Elsa. I lost count how many times I almost went to your room in the middle of the night, but I knew that would be..."

"A bad idea," Elsa finishes. Her breath catches when Hans kisses the sensitive spot below her ear. "I almost did the same thing."

Hans leans back a little bit, but he stays close enough for his breath to hit her skin.

"You did?" he asks. His eyes glitter with surprise.

Looking at him, Elsa realizes her nerves have settled. Her heart still thumps, her cheeks still flare, but she no longer feels anxious when talking to him.

"After reading the letters you sent me, how could I not?" She smirks at his expression. "What? Did you not think they'd make me feel something?"

"I guess I...didn't know how they'd make you feel. I guess I was only thinking about my embarrassment," he says, smiling. He looks a bit bashful. He's adorable and handsome at the same time. Elsa has to keep herself from kissing him in the open.

"Don't be embarrassed," she says softly. "They made me realize how much I want you, too."

His throat bobs in a swallow. He stares at her with eyes that are too sharp and vibrantly green. They are a sea encompassing her whole.

They are sitting very closely to one another. A vein of ice runs along the wood inside the carriage from her free hand that's gripping the edge of the seat.

"You're very beautiful, Elsa," he says.

She's not expecting the compliment. She blushes.

"You don't look so bad yourself. When did you get this suit tailored?"

"A few weeks ago," he says. "Elena insisted."

"Elena?"

Hans nods. "She heard I was going to be your escort and was appalled I had nothing to wear."

Elsa laughs. "Sounds like her. I like it. Very regal. It brings out your eyes."

"Funny. That's what the other lady servants said, too."

"Our servants have good taste."

"I was surprised she wanted to make one for me, considering she's Anna's personal servant."

"Just because Anna doesn't like you doesn't mean she makes everyone else close to her not like you."

Hans sighs. "I've done nothing to get her to like me, either."

"It seems like you've done something."

"Elena is very kind. I've hardly talked to her."

"Maybe the servants are beginning to trust you, even though you've done nothing."

"I'm serious. It's only been a few months."

"And yet you've somehow managed to pass guard training," Elsa muses. "With Chief Gerald at the helm, that's nothing to sneeze at."

Hans shrugs. "That wasn't hard."

"Oh, really? It wasn't?"

"No."

Elsa peers up at him. "Gerald is pretty severe and strict..."

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Hm," Elsa hums. Hans smiles at her, but he doesn't expand on his experience. She glances up to the road, and they still have a few blocks before they reach the castle.

"Okay, tell me," she says. "How'd you do it?"

Hans shifts. "Didn't the Chief update you about everything?"

"Yes...but I'd like to hear your side," Elsa says, smiling. Hans seems uncomfortable by the topic, and Elsa's curiosity is increasingly piqued.

"Not much to say," he relents. "A lot of physical training. The psychological testing wasn't terrible, but it was challenging. I've never not slept for so long in my life."

The main component of the psychological testing consists of multiple days of sleep deprivation. Once a week for three weeks, the trainees are to stay awake for 24 hours, then subsequently go through a normal day of training. At the end, they are to answer questions on paper or in person with the Chief asking. The questions include specifics over the training regimen, Arendelle's statute of loyalty, the anthem, and the trainees' own personal purpose.

"I didn't realize sleep deprivation was so similar to being drunk," Hans says.

Elsa grins. "I wish I could have seen you."

"I'm glad you didn't. I lost count how many times I stumbled over myself and fell onto the ground."

That is one of the main reasons why the questions are asked at the very end. The bone deep fatigue, be it both mental and physical exhaustion, forces any type of carefully crafted duplicity to expire. Underneath the heaviness and befuddled mush of incoherent thoughts, it is just as potent as a truth serum.

"I can hardly remember what I answered, much less what was asked," Hans says.

Elsa pokes him. "Are you lying to me, Hans?"

He laughs, but it sounds nervous. "What? Of course not. Why would I lie?"

"Because you're embarrassed about something."

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he says, "The Chief keeps records of it. Did he not show them to you?"

"He told me I would want to speak to you personally before being shown the records," Elsa says. "Which I thought interesting. Chief Gerald is always very blunt."

"He must have his reasons."

Though there is a myriad of carriages trailing behind them, like the train of Anna's wedding dress, with double the amount of eyes for every person looking their way, Elsa leans forward and kisses Hans' cheek. He is tense, she realizes. He is uncertain, even as he wears a distinguished suit, looking for all the world a true prince.

"Okay. I'll be ready to hear about the report when you're ready to tell me."

He rubs his thumb over her knuckles. "You're very patient with me, Elsa."

"I'm queen. I must be patient with everyone."

Hans smiles. "Well, I'm grateful all the same."

They arrive shortly to the castle thereafter, and Elsa hooks her arm with Hans' as they walk through the entrance towards the ballroom. Over the last week, it had been a bustle of activity in the castle. Decorations had been strewn up along the rafters of the entryway, vines of only the freshest flowers lining the columns in the hallways leading from the entrance to the ballroom.

Covered lanterns hang from hooks, gently swaying with the autumn breeze that rushes in from the open entryway. They are lit and softly glowing, drenching the carpeted hallways in dusky oranges and yellows. Shadows form against the columns, blanketing the passing couples in a layer of intimacy, with whispers sheltered by the dim lowlights hitting their backs and cradling their faces.

Upon reaching the ballroom, their eyes are hit with resplendence. The autumnal vines continue along the ceiling above them, holding dark orange and red trumpet vines, dusty white hydrangeas, and a lavender wisteria. Tables are arranged around the front half of the room, six chairs around each, with a simple white tablecloth lying across. Each chair is made with plush ecru cushions and dark stained wood. Small candles sit in the middle of each table, along with a blooming centerpiece decked with the same flowers from the vines and changing leaves—from dark green to the transitional yellows, oranges, and ochres.

"They've done a great job," Hans says, glancing over the room.

"They have. It is just as Anna wanted," Elsa smiles.

Violins and cellos swell from the corner of the room, a handful of musicians beginning to fill the room with sound. Servants flit back and forth with food trays, hors d'oeuvers, and champagne, along with tables lining the walls with heated metal holdings for the larger food items.

Many people begin to fill the room, all dressed in their finest clothing. Royalty is allowed inside the castle first, with the lower status of townsfolk allowed into the courtyard. The windows of the ballroom are open for the music to filter out and the intermingling of conversation overlying the backdrop of the strings.

Elsa is whisked away from Hans quickly, with ambassadors drawing her into their circle, asking her questions about the kingdom, the bride, and when she is to also be wed. Elsa glances to Hans with an apologetic smile, and Hans waves it off immediately, watching her mingle and converse with a delicate ease as the convening royals remind him of vultures, picking off her answers as if they're picking at her flesh, trying to reach the vulnerability of bone.

Hans remains close in case she needs an escape, or if any of the men try something untoward.

Hans is finally able to witness how well Elsa can handle herself. She smiles or she laughs. She replies easily, and Hans guesses she says something witty or smart. She places a hand on an arm or a shoulder, and he wonders if the action loosens their tongues, makes them say things they shouldn't. They certainly gain a happy glint in their eyes when she makes contact, roped in, inspired to lean forward and whisper something into her ear, perhaps an esoteric thought or comment, something intriguing, a piece of information about their country to try to hook her interests.

Hans' imagination takes off as he makes up his own narrative, his own fictitious motives for different men with different crests on the breast of their suit jackets. He spies the ones he believes would be trying to make a beneficial match, the countries in which the economies are on rising trends. These men are never friendly to be friends. They always want something, either a piece of intelligence or a piece of a queen.

Chief Gerald had elbowed him earlier in the chapel, telling him, "You are trained, now. Be a guard, a protector. Take the skills you've gained and put them to good use if the chance arises. I will be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. It will be just as well if you are, too, Mister Westergaard, with such a jewel on your arm."

Hans does not have a weapon on him, as he's yet to be given clearance by Elsa and Anna, but he has fists. He's confident in his ability, and he sizes up the man that's making Elsa laugh.

"You're very enraptured with the view. I've taught you how rude it is to stare."

Hans jerks, looking to his left. His mother stands before him, a diamond beret gleaming in her hair. The dress she wears is black silk, a green sash tied in a bow around her waist. She is pushing her palm into one of her finest, hand carved canes. It is ivory with gentle, sloping curves along the handle. It always reminded Hans of a blooming fern frond, in the process of unraveling. It shouts of newness, but it's one of the first canes Hans remembers her having.

"Mother," he breathes, recovering from his shock. "You're...here."

"Of course I'm here," she says. "I was invited."

Hans blinks. Invited? By Elsa? Surely not. She would have told him.

"By Princess Anna?" he asks.

"By both," she says. She glances around the room. "I must say it is rather...simple in design."

Hans almost laughs. If she had her way, the entire room would be plated with gold, emeralds and diamonds placed in facets along all the columns.

"Did you know you were invited to a wedding? You're dressed for a funeral," he says, gesturing to the line of her dress.

"You haven't lost your sense of humor, I see."

"I'd never lose my humor."

She eyes him. "You're dressed properly. The attire doesn't remind me of a prisoner, begging for mercy."

Hans takes a deep breath. "You're right. It doesn't."

"Care to explain?"

"I haven't been given any privileges, if that's what you're asking," he states. "I was given a suit in honor of Princess Anna's wedding. That's all."

"You've certainly been given privilege if you are here in this ballroom rather than in the kitchens. In the stables. Had you been a prisoner, you wouldn't have been invited."

Hans feels his cheeks flush under his mother's glare. It seems no matter how far removed he had been from her, it only takes her presence to make him feel as though he is a child again, enveloped in the purview of her disappointment.

"You're right, mother, just as you always are. I've been training as a guard. I asked to be Queen Elsa's escort, and she accepted."

To his surprise, Queen Anja laughs. "Of course she accepted. Of course you're not a prisoner. But a guard, you say? My, my. Where is your sword?"

Hans hesitates. "Unnecessary at such a jovial function. My fists are all I need."

Still amused, Queen Anja says, "You were never a good liar, Hans. I always wondered how you fooled so many people back then."

At this, Hans bristles. His hair stands on end like a dog's hackles before he forces himself to relax.

"Yeah. You and me both, mother. I guess people see what they want to see."

"Hm," she says. "And what do they see now? Have they shunned you? Do they see a wolf in sheep's clothing? If you're a guard, then they must have seen something else."

"I have no idea what they see, mother. You'd have to ask them."

She looks over him again. "It is unlike you not to care what others think. Always so arrogant, craving attention, boasting your most minimal attributes. It is a wonder they allowed you to train with them, as you were never a talented swordsman or horseman."

Hans looks down to the ground, the words slicing their way under his skin. They peel him like an orange. Everything he's tried over the past months—the things he's learned, the physical and mental stresses of training, the labor on the farmlands and in the stables—begin to feel inadequate. He feels himself shrinking again. The two inches of height he had built back since being in Arendelle begin to start cracking with only a few simple words from his mother's tongue.

It makes him feel useless. It makes him feel angry.

"Like I said," Hans continues, his teeth buckling. "People see what they want to see. I can't make them see what I see in myself or how I feel. I tried with you. For years, I tried, and that never worked, did it? I tried to be something. I tried to be noticed. I bragged on myself because no one else seemed to think I deserved it, because that's what you saw. That's how you felt."

His mother blinks, and Hans finally feels as though he's done something. One tiny chip in her granite statue. One flick of a finger on her wrist.

When she doesn't answer, Hans looks around the room. "Was father invited, too? I'm sure he couldn't pass up the opportunity to see his baker's dozen stripped into a shell, broken and slaughtered, maybe even covered in horse shit. That has happened, you know. The horse shit. You would have loved it."

She tightens her hold on her cane. "He's not here."

"Why not? Not even the idea of seeing me a starving husk was enough to tempt him out of the Isles?" He laughs. "I should have known. I can't even waste his time in a state of fictitious dying."

Queen Anja looks away from him to the masses of people. Princess Anna and Kristoff have taken their place at the head table, greeting the people lined up who are eager to give them their congratulations and their wishes of a lifetime of happiness and prosperity.

"I told him not to come."

"Right, of course you did," Hans says, almost snorting. "I'm sure he couldn't be bothered. I'm sure he had so many business acquisitions to go over. So many prospects to make the kingdom even richer than it is already."

"That is certainly plausible. I am sure that is what he's wasting his time on now. But I speak the truth—I told him not to come."

"Okay, mother. Your word brokers no argument." Hans says it sarcastically. In all honesty, he does not care one way or another if his mother kept his father from coming. If his father had come, perhaps he'd have good reason to use his fists. Perhaps he finally could have shown his father that he isn't a runt, a weakling, a coward.

And as much as he wants to get away from his mother standing beside him, he forces himself to prove that he truly isn't cowardly. He won't run away to the kitchens even if he feels he belongs there. He won't go to the stables, though he would much rather be in the company of the horses.

He grabs a champagne flute from a passing tray. He downs it and wishes for another.

"Why are you here, mother?" Hans asks when the silence between them stretches. "Why did you come all this way? It wasn't to see me. You never cared about the well-being of Princess Anna. Was it to see Queen Elsa?"

Queen Anja watches him. Her lips curl into a frown. "You look very well, Hans."

Hans scoffs. His hand tightens around the stem of the glass.

"Who made the suit for you?" she asks.

"A tailoring maid."

"Did Queen Elsa ask them to make it?"

"Nope," he says, his eyes finding her figure. Still in his line of sight, nothing seems out of sorts. She is still conversing, being passed along like the champagne tray.

"The servants did it all on their own?"

"Seems like it."

"Hm," she sniffs. "Perhaps they now truly see, don't they?"

Hans furrows his brows, looking back to her. "What?"

"As you said, Hans. People see who they want to see. When they judge, when their impressions are made, it is hard for them to see anything else. You say they made that for you of their own accord," she says, nodding to him. "That must mean they finally see you."

He stares at her, and she stares back. Eventually she says, "You will not believe me, but you are my child, Hans. You have always been mine. I have always—" she pauses.

"You've always, what?" he asks. "You always believed I could be something? Because I'm yours? Because you could have only birthed sons who amount to something?"

Perhaps he is being cruel. In retrospect, he wonders if he had been more patient, if he hadn't been so angry, if he hadn't been so suspicious. If he hadn't, maybe he would have seen she was being sincere.

"No, Hans," she says, and she reaches out to place a hand on his. He's so surprised by the motion that he steps away from her and out of her grasp. She brings her hand back to the handle of her cane. "No. I've always cared for you."

He frowns a bit. She is struggling. The words come out of her stilted and slow, as if they are covered in sludge.

"I was never good at showing it. I never knew how much it mattered, or how it affected you. How it would affect you. I'm..." she glances out to the party. Anna and Kristoff are about to have their first dance.

"You're what?"

"I'm sorry, Hans."

The music changes, slower and sweeter. The ringing of the strings saturate the space above them, slipping between the bodies, curling around the columns, the vines, ringing off the glasses. Anna and Kristoff begin to dance, and the conversation around them quiets to barely audible murmurs.

Hans stares at his mother. The great Queen Anja apologizing. He never thought he'd hear it in his lifetime, much less directed to him. He's so shocked that he can't say a word back.

She tries to smile. It doesn't reach her. She lifts a hand, but it doesn't reach him. She glances to the middle of the ballroom toward the newlyweds, and Hans stares at her, knowing that she would never say something so demeaning or embarrassing to her character—unless she meant it.

And even still, as much as he wants to feel her apology and her care, he is still so angry and hurt and sad. He wishes he could love her, but in the singular moment, he can't find it inside of him to give.

A hand slips into his own, and he starts, glancing to his other side. He sees Elsa beaming up to him. "Look! They're dancing!" she whispers loudly. She looks back to the floor, her eyes so involved on Anna and Kristoff, that she doesn't notice how pale he has gotten, nor his mother standing beside him. He merely nods and squeezes her hand like it's the only thing holding him in place. With his mother so near, it may as well be the only thing.

When the song is over and the dance ends, his mother is no longer beside him. He looks around, but he doesn't see her lingering along the outside wall or by the exit or sitting at a table. She has vanished like a ghost, and he has a mind to think she was merely an apparition after all.

* * *

People begin to gather onto the dance floor in twos and fours once Anna and Kristoff finish theirs. The music changes tempo, the beat quick and jumping, allegros and allegrettos, weaving the rapid movement of bows on strings into the heartbeats of couples who intertwine and unravel, spinning and dipping.

Elsa tugs on Hans hand. She looks up to him eagerly. "Let's dance!"

Hans is still out of sorts. His eyes continue to dart around the room, looking for black silk and a green sash.

"I'm...maybe in a minute," he says.

Elsa frowns. "Are you alright?" she asks, and she follows his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says. "I'm just...actually, you go ahead and dance. I need to do something."

Elsa continues to frown, but she slowly lets go of his hand. "Alright...I'll be waiting for you," she says.

He smiles at her tightly and then leaves her, sliding between bodies, and not sure why he's wasting time looking for his mother—he's not sure what he wants to say. He doesn't want to say anything, and yet he can't forget the look on her face, how it looked when she said _I'm sorry._ He's certain it will haunt his dreams.

He doesn't find her. He goes to the balcony. He walks the entire length of the ballroom. He ends at the food table with no luck at catching a glimpse of her. He's not sure how a lady with a cane could get away so quickly, but there it is.

He stays at the table for a while, grabbing another champagne flute and nursing it for a few minutes. Anna manages to make her way through the throng of people, leaning against the table beside him. Hans shakes the rigidness out of his shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes gleam under the lights of her special day. She peers up at him with a smile, and he can't tell if it's provoking or genuine.

"Princess," he greets. "Congratulations on the wedding. I'm glad Kristoff didn't back out."

Anna sticks her tongue out at him. "Very funny. But thanks. Anyway, what are you doing over here? Shouldn't you be wooing my sister?"

Hans smiles slightly. "I probably should be. There are enough suitors who decided to come."

Anna wrinkles her nose, glancing out to the people. Hans eyes snag on Elsa, who is walking off the dance floor with someone. He's whispering in her ear.

"Always suitors. Too many of them, I say," Anna says. "I'm so glad I'm married and met Kristoff before I had to worry about it."

"Yeah. Good thing. I'm sure you'd be punching a lot of noses otherwise."

She glances at him, crossing her arms. "So, what is it between you two, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. You care about Elsa, right? You went through guard training and somehow passed Gerald's testing—which is still under review, by the way."

Hans sighs.

"And I've heard no complaints from Elena! None. Which is weird. She's a good judge of character, you know."

Hans shifts his weight. "What are you trying to ask me, Princess?"

"All I'm asking is, could you care for Elsa enough to risk everything? Like Kristoff for me. He gave me to the hands of someone he thought I loved," at this, she shudders exaggeratedly. Hans rolls his eyes. "Even though he loved me. He would have let me be happy, even though it wouldn't be with him."

Hans' eyes find Elsa again, just outside of his periphery. She's engaged in another conversation, this time with ladies. She's smiling.

Anna watches him. "Your mother said—"

Hans jolts. "My mother?" His eyes widen. "It was you, wasn't it?"

Anna blinks. "What?"

"You." He points, his finger by her nose. "You invited her. You told her to come. You made her—"

"Hans," she says, surprised. "Of course I invited her, but... what are you talking about? She didn't respond. We didn't think she was coming."

Hans' teeth grind together, not quite believing. "But..."

Anna's brows furrow. "What is it? Did something happen?"

"No..." he says. "Nothing happened."

Anna stares at him, narrowing her eyes. "She came, didn't she? I _knew_ it. I knew she would come. Elsa didn't think so, but—"

"Did you tell her to say those things?" he asks, already knowing the question is absurd but needing to ask. He needs it, so very badly.

Anna frowns. "What things? What did she say?" She glances around. "Is she here? I didn't see her anywhere, but there's a lot of people—"

"That she was sorry. That she cares for me," Hans shakes his head, leaning back into the table. "Hell, this is ridiculous. I sound like a child."

Anna looks at him. "Oh. Hans, no. I think she meant that all her own. She said she believed you could love others, if given the time and the patience."

"Don't tell me," he says wryly. "You've read her letters, too."

Anna ducks her head. Her cheeks turn a shade redder. "Um..."

Hans huffs, running a hand through his hair. He is exasperated by everything. "Alright, fine. Whatever. So what was your question? If I cared for Elsa? You'd have to be blind if you think I don't."

Anna's mouth curls. "You know, I was about to feel sorry for you about your mom. Anyway. Okay. Let's say I believe you. How _much_ do you care about her?" Anna redirects her eyes to Elsa, and Hans follows her gaze. "You see that gentleman beside her? He's been hovering all night while you've been skulking around. He's handsome. He's the Prince of Waverly, which is doing quite well in their coffers. They're our main importer for rice and beans. He's well to do and doesn't have any convictions..."

Hans narrows his eyes. He's noticed him. Prince Edward, with his baby face and tall, thin figure. Hans doesn't think he's ever worked a day in his life.

...which is unfair of him to say. Hans only worked because he was given no other choice.

"And?" he prods.

Anna looks at him again. "If he, or anyone, was a better match for Elsa...or if she fell in love with someone who was a king or a prince, who was better for her and the entire kingdom...what would you do?"

Hans looks from her to Elsa. He always knew that would be a possibility. He always knew he'd never be considered good for her. He always knew that.

On top of his mother's appearance, the question tugs at him tremendously. He feels a deep fissure of despair rock through him like an earthquake.

"I..." Hans doesn't know. What would he do? He's never had Elsa. They've never discussed what it was between them. A fanciful notion? An infatuation? A ponderous thread of lust? He knows what _he_ feels. He's felt it for so very long a time, it feels part of him now. Another panel stitched in his quilt. But he knows it might never have the potential to be something. He was never going to tell her unless he made something of himself. If he became a guard, a knight. If he became a Sir instead of a glorified peasant, then maybe he'd have something to offer. And if he didn't?

Her feelings also had to be considered. She is kind, empathetic. She has a large heart, big enough to fit even a consideration of him. But could she ever love him?

Everything is beginning to feel impossible—his mother coming up to him, making the entire trip just to tell him she cared about him, Elsa being out of his grasp, all of the what ifs.

"I don't know," he says. "I...I don't know."

Anna turns fully, facing him. "Hans, if she was in love with someone else, and if she pardoned you completely and asked you to leave the castle, would you do it?"

Both of the images are unfathomable. Arendelle feels like a home to him—leaving this place, where would he go? He would never go back to the Southern Isles. He's not sure what he would do.

If Elsa chose another—and he's had a generous preview of what that would look like, with another man whispering in her ear, with her laughing at what only she could hear, her hand playfully on his chest, her ice provoked and wrapping around them, a kiss stolen in the shadows or in plain sight.

Hans' stomach twists and his face darkens. He can feel it like a viper slithering up his throat.

If Elsa chose another, he doesn't think he _could_ stay. He's not sure if he'd even want to. To love from afar and outside of the castle would be one thing. To love from afar and watch her, firsthand, have another life without him... either option is a sickening blow to his gut.

Hans turns his eyes back to Elsa. She looks back and forth between the ladies and gentlemen she's talking with. She must feel his eyes on her, because she glances back over her shoulder, smiling over to him.

Hans swallows. "I'd do whatever she asked me."

"If she married and asked you to stay?" Anna asks.

Hans sighs, closing his eyes. "I don't think I could." He imagines other details. A wedding, like Anna's, being her guard and reporting to her stiffly, becoming strangers again inside the same walls they had become...something. Walking by paintings of her and her husband and children. He would always want to protect her, but he wonders if his good intentions would be corrupted by pain and longing, turning him into another monster. No. No, he doesn't think he could stay.

"No, I couldn't. I'd be too weak. I'd always wish and want—" Hans stops, forgetting for a moment who he's talking to.

"What would you always want, Hans?" Anna asks.

Hans rubs at his face. "What I'll never have."

They are quiet for a moment. Finally, Anna asks, "Do you love her?"

Such a simple question.

"Is this a test?" he asks.

"Honestly? Yes."

Hans looks at her, huffing a laugh. "You know I can't answer that."

"What? Sure you can."

"C'mon, Anna. If I say yes, you'll think I'm lying and playing to your romantic nature. If I say no, you'll think I'm lying because how could someone not love her?"

Anna watches him for a moment before a smile creeps up onto her face. "You're right. How could someone not love her?"

He continues watching Elsa, and a rush of longing overcomes him. It's almost an ache, a cavity forming in his sternum.

"I don't know. Probably impossible."

"Yeah. Probably. But there have been some guys who courted her a while back who had said some pretty unsavory things."

Hans begins to grimace. "She told me a bit about that."

"They called her ice queen—which is technically true, but they meant it in a mean way—stiff, stoic, uptight," she says, counting off with her fingers. "One even said he thought she had a stick up her you-know-what. Can you believe that? Ugh! I almost flipped his chair over."

This makes Hans stew. "Really?"

"Yeah. It really hurt her feelings for a while, but it got better," Anna says, watching Hans.

"Are any of them here tonight?"

"Actually, yeah. That guy with the dark blue coat and the white streak in his hair—"

Hans picks him out immediately and begins stalking toward him.

"Hans? Oh shoot, Hans no!" Anna shrieks, grabbing his arm and hauling him backwards. He's surprised how strong she is as he stumbles.

Hissing, she says, "What do you think you're doing? You are not starting a fight at my wedding!"

"But he's an asshole!" Hans argues, jerking his sleeve out of her grip. She stands in front of him with her hands on her hips.

"Yes he is, but no, you're not starting a fight. I know he's an idiot—"

"More than an idiot. How could he say something like that?" His eyes find Elsa's platinum hair. "Elsa's kind and compassionate. She's selfless. She started to believe in me, and now I think I'm finally starting to believe in myself. I don't know what she sees, but she makes me want to be that person, whoever he is." He sighs. "She makes me want to do anything for her. That guy's a moron."

Anna watches his gaze and smiles up at him. He notices her look and frowns.

"What?"

Anna shakes her head. "Oh, nothing. You just answered my question."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean."

Hans twitches. "Any person with a brain would want to beat up that guy."

Laughing, Anna says, "Nice try, but it's not that. As a woman who is newly married and an expert in all things matrimonial, you should tell her."

Hans raises his eyebrows. "But...wait, what? Tell her…?" He shakes his head. "But you hate my guts."

"And you're not denying it!"

Hans flushes, simultaneously frowning. "You…don't approve of me as a person."

"Eh," Anna waves. "Be that as it may, you love my sister. I can see it _and_ feel it. The way you look at her is _ridiculous._ So..." she shrugs. "Tell her."

Hans coughs. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" she asks, annoyance filtering into her tone. She places her hands on her hips.

"I...haven't passed my training test."

"Yes, you have."

"What?"

"I just passed you."

Slack-jawed, Hans stutters. "I, uh, I'm not..."

"Nothing's stopping you now," she says, shrugging. "The time is nigh, before someone else swoops in. I don't have to tell you, but my sister's a hot commodity."

Hans swallows. He can't wrap his mind around the events that just transpired. From hopelessness to hope, in the span of five minutes.

"Yes, she is."

Anna pats his shoulder, grinning. "Now I see what Gerald was saying. Who knew?" She shakes her head then turns back to walk to her table, where Kristoff is sitting and looking overwhelmed by all the attention of the guests.

Hans watches her go. Could it have been so easy? How did he persuade Anna that he was sincere? He feels as though he hasn't even truly explained it to her, but—

He glances to Elsa, and he guesses he doesn't have to.

Elsa looks up to him again, catching his eye. She says something to a lady she's talking to, and disengages herself from the group. She makes her way towards him. She sidles up beside him at the table, filching a champagne flute behind them.

"Did you do what you needed to do?" she asks.

His mind jumps from his mother then to Anna. He hadn't found his mother, but he somehow succeeded in gaining Anna's approval—for now—and he thinks that may be better than anything else.

"Mostly," he relents, moving his arm behind her back. She settles into his side. He gestures to the group she left. "You make new friends?"

"Oh, not really. Just made polite conversation."

"Ah, yes, as is your duty."

"It's really exhausting," she says. "Was that Anna I saw you talking to?"

"It was."

"What did you talk about?"

Elsa is very interested. He sees it in the way her eyes dig holes in him, trying to find the treasures of hidden information.

"Oh, not much. The usual. She was boasting about how happy she was and how you have an endless amount of suitors."

Elsa watches him closely, squinting. "What else did she say?"

"Uh…" he flounders. "She said I passed my guard testing, so that's a good thing."

Her eyes glitter, and Hans can almost see snowflakes falling inside her irises.

"She did?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Hans!" she exclaims, and she reaches up to grab the sides of his face, pulling him down and planting a full kiss on his lips. "That's wonderful!"

Hans stares at her in shock. "Elsa, we're in public."

She laughs. "So? I don't care. Besides, I've been telling everyone about you, anyway."

He flushes. "I…what?"

She leans in. "What do you think the ladies were so interested in talking to me about? It certainly isn't about the state of our crops."

A slow grin starts to pull on his face. "And what were you telling them?"

She lifts a single shoulder in a shrug. "Oh, you know. How we started writing letters to each other, and now here you are as my escort to my sister's wedding."

He glances over to the group of ladies and a few gentleman. Most of the ladies are sneaking glances at them.

"So they know the whole story, don't they," he says. "What do they think of me being the outcast of the Southern Isles?"

"Oh, they don't," she says, following his gaze to the ladies. "To them, you're commoner Hendrick. I knew you didn't want them to know."

Hans glances down to Elsa's side profile. "Thanks for that," he says sincerely.

She shakes her head. "We talked about it before, remember? I'll let you tell them the truth, if you'd like. And if you don't, it doesn't matter."

He wants to kiss her again. "Did they disapprove of my status?"

Elsa raises an eyebrow. Her face looks devious. "On the contrary, they said I was so lucky to find such a handsome commoner in our midst."

This pulls a laugh out of Hans. "What? Really? I should have known my looks would be good for something."

"Besides my admiration, you mean?"

"Definitely not. That's the only thing that matters."

"You're full of lines, today. Have you been reading more romance novels?"

"The novels don't really compare with the real thing."

She pushes him with her shoulder. "Full of it." They grin. "Will you join me, now? We've barely spent any time together. If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been avoiding spending time with me."

"Not avoiding," he corrects. "I just prefer watching men ogle you from afar, not up close."

She wrinkles her nose. "If you were with me, men wouldn't be ogling."

"Highly doubtful. It'd only egg them on more."

"Would it egg _you_ on more?"

He pauses. "Probably."

"I shouldn't be surprised." She rolls her eyes. "So? Will you join me?"

"Will _I_ be ogled?" He glances at the group of people. "It would probably be best if I stayed back. I think I'm _too_ handsome."

"Oh, be quiet!" Elsa laughs, taking his hand and tugging him along. "You're coming."

Elsa ends up using him as a pillar of support, talking with what seem to be an endless line of people. Hans tries to keep up, but he loses flavor for small talk quickly and tends to listen to Elsa direct the subjects of conversation. She will usually spend time over one or two topics before escaping from either a singular person or a group.

"You're quite good at retreating," Hans whispers to her as they casually walk away from one group.

"Practice," she says simply. "Lots of practice."

She introduces Hans to everyone as Hendrick, one of Arendelle's most esteemed guards. Her exaggeration is flattering and embarrassing. Hans doesn't know what to say the first time, then acts as cool and collected as he can the more they talk to people. When they ask him questions, he keeps his answers short and succinct, and Elsa breezes the topics along without allowing them to search with more specific inquiries.

After the fifth round of conversation, they find a small respite in the space by the side tables. Elsa huffs out a tired sigh. "That must be nearly everyone."

"That's very impressive and exhausting."

She glances off to their right, toward the dancefloor, then back to him. "Not exhausting enough. Let's dance."

Hans winces. "I haven't danced in years. Literally. Years."

"Oh, but you learned it. Muscle memory! And you can swordfight. You have nimble feet."

"You're overestimating my capabilities."

"You can't be any worse than the men I had to dance with earlier when you ditched me."

Hans frowns, remembering his mother, before he begins to feel guilty for abandoning her. "Surely I can show up those guys."

She grins, locks her hand around his wrist, and weaves their way to the floor. When they find an open spot, she puts one hand on his shoulder and one hand clasped with his palm.

"Okay. Show me what you've got."

He places his remaining hand on her hip. The music has a lively swing, with high riffs in the violins and a steady beat with the cellos and bass. It is a three count, and Hans does his best to lead them into a waltz.

"I didn't think you liked dancing. You didn't dance at your coronation," he says.

"I've warmed up to it over the past few years. It's not the first thing I'd like to do with strangers, but it's much more tolerable when you like your partner." She pauses. "I'm also not so afraid to touch people. Once I became more confident in my abilities in controlling my ice, things like this became…easier."

They take a few turns around the other couples on the floor. Hans says, "I never see you wear your gloves anymore."

"No," she says, flexing her gloveless fingers on his shoulder. "I usually don't feel like I need them."

Over the time Hans has been living in the castle, he had been witness to Elsa's growth in her position. When once she had been newly coronated, she had been unsure in all aspects. Her abilities to lead, her powers, her control, her confidence. She was every bit an amateur, incapable of balancing her needs versus her country's necessities and burdens.

Even in his old basement cell, he had seen how much she evolved from the timid queen he had first laid eyes on when he came to take her crown. Now, in the moment, with her hands free of any protection, her shoulders are strong and square, her neck every bit swan-like, her chest proud. She checks every box for a competent ruler, and Anna's words ring through his ears. _If she loved someone else, what would you do?_

"What would make you wear the gloves again?" he asks.

"Probably a newly appointed guard who likes to flirt with me and send me provocative letters."

"Then I guess he'll continue to flirt and send letters."

"I hope he does. It keeps me on my toes."

"He's got to keep your interest somehow, with all these princes and dukes circling around."

Elsa smiles at him. "I think I'm a bit too distracted by you to give other men a chance."

"You are?"

The music begins to slow, the steady beat of the waltz decreasing tempo, as though the strings have been drenched in honey. The overture is sweet and unhurried, glazing the floor with a rich, saccharine tint. Elsa moves her other hand out of his and onto his shoulder. Both of his land on her hip. His cheek hits her temple, and they sway together.

"I'm afraid I am," she says softly.

"I think you're right to be afraid."

She turns her head to look at him. "Why do you say that?"

"There are always consequences when you're distracted by someone—"

"Oh, don't even say "someone unworthy." I'm sick of you downgrading yourself."

Hans chuckles. "Okay. If you're fine with me continuing to distract you, then I have no other qualms."

Elsa presses her lips closer to his ear. "Which reminds me. I've only received ten letters. Where's your last one?"

Hans tries to avoid becoming rigid, inhaling her scent, focusing on her cool breath which awakes goosebumps down his neck.

"My last one," he trails. He dips his head to kiss her jaw. She hums, tightening her hold on the back of his neck. "Soon," he finally relents. "I'll give it to you soon, but not yet."

"Soon? Then why not tonight? It's romantic enough…"

His stomach contracts, and Anna's voice slithers into his mind once more. _You should tell her. Nothing's stopping you, now._

"Well, if you're expecting it, then it wouldn't be as exciting."

"Oh, whatever. It's always exciting when I receive a letter, no matter if I know about it or not."

"Someone's eager. It must be because you think the letter is just as _provocative_ as the last."

She breathes a laugh, nudging him with her elbow. "I never asked for you to send me your _fantasies._ You decided to do that all on your own."

"Hm. I won't believe you if you deny enjoying what I think about daily."

Her skin begins to pinken along the bridge of her nose. "You don't think about that daily."

He starts grinning. "Sure I do," he whispers in her ear. "I dream about you all the time."

"Hans…"

"You know I do. Kissing you, touching you. Pleasuring you how you want me to."

"Hans!" she whispers sharply, her face coloring a deeper shade of red. "That's…"

"Inappropriate?" he tries, tightening his hold on her hips. "Doesn't really matter to me."

She exhales, loosening one hand from his shoulder and dropping it to land on his chest. "Nothing about us has been appropriate."

"Wouldn't have been any interesting if it was appropriate," he says, relishing the pressure of her palm.

"Mm. You're right." She runs a finger along the gold thread of his waistcoat. "I think I like inappropriate, even though it makes me a little…crazy."

"Crazy?" Hans says.

"It's your fault for making me think about what it would be like to…be with you."

" _Be_ with me? Whatever do you mean, Your Highness?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "You know exactly what I mean."

He grins at how uncomfortable she's getting. "Oh, you mean being in bed together."

She blinks and averts her eyes. She almost squirms. "You're enjoying this too much."

He can't help himself. "It's not every day I get to hear the queen talking to me about wanting to bed me."

"Hans!" she shakes her head, laughing. "You make it sound like I'm a heathen."

"No more heathen than I am," he says, nuzzling her with his nose. "Would you like it better if I said making love instead of bed?"

"Um…" she hesitates. "That sounds very…"

"It sounds very what, Elsa?" he says softly.

"I don't know…" she says. "Intimate and…and vulnerable and connecting very deeply."

"Yeah. It would be all of those things. Maybe more." He sighs into her. "I would make love to you every day if you wanted me to."

The music dwindles down with the ending of the song, and Elsa moves to look up at him. He stares back at her, and they come to a standstill.

Eyes bright, Elsa takes a deep breath. "Hans…I need to tell you something. I didn't want to tell you until I was sure."

Her intensity makes him breathless. "What is it?"

She takes his hands into her own. "I want to tell you that I—"

A clearing throat interrupts them. "Queen Elsa?"

Both Hans and Elsa look up to see a man standing beside them—Prince Edward of Waverly, Hans realizes, his lanky figure unmistakable, his coiffed hair that is too gelled, his nose that is too sharp and pointed. He glares at him, but the man seems to only be looking toward Elsa. Elsa, for her part, looks off-guard and surprised.

"Oh, Prince…Edward," she says. "What do you need?"

"I was hoping to steal you for the next dance. You have been most preoccupied, and I would love to spend one dance with you before the night is done," he says, bowing his head. His eyes catch on Hans' and Elsa's hands for a moment before he gives her a large smile.

Elsa's chest rises in a breath, and a flit of uncertainty crosses over her face. Hans can nearly feel all the thoughts in her head—not wanting to sully her relationship with Waverly with a rejection to a dance, not wanting to dance with him but feeling an obligation to do so, always playing politics as she has done so many times before. Hans opens his mouth to tell the guy to buzz off, but Elsa stops him when she squeezes his hand. She glances at him and shakes her head. He must be very easy to read.

"It has been a very preoccupying night, Prince Edward," Elsa says. "I will allow one dance with you this evening, but that is all."

Prince Edward smiles as though he's won more than merely a dance. "Thank you, Your Highness."

Elsa turns back to Hans and leans forward. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for doing your job," he says. "Meet me on the balcony after?"

She nods. "I'm quite tired of dancing."

They drop hands, and Hans backs away from the dancefloor. He watches Prince Edward take Elsa's hands instead, leading her into the next song that is blessedly not slow or sweet. Elsa's back is stiff, a berth of space kept between their bodies. When Hans is satisfied that Prince Edward is not going to try anything unseemly, he turns and heads out of the room, through the kitchens—says a brief hello to Helga and the other kitchen maids—and up the stairs to his private quarters.

When Elsa finally reaches the balcony, it feels like it had been much longer than fifteen minutes. Prince Edward is certainly persistent. She'll give him that. Even with only allowing him one dance, he made sure to continue with conversation until Elsa finally found an opening to excuse herself to grab a glass of champagne and slip out to the balcony. Surprisingly few people stand outside, though the night is refreshing and cool. She doesn't mind it. It is nice and quiet and she feels as if she can finally take a breather. She leans against the railing and closes her eyes.

A short time later, she hears, "Good view?"

She glances behind her. Hans is smirking as he walks up behind her.

"It's better now that you're here."

He guffaws. "You're stealing my lines."

"I couldn't pass up the opportunity," she says. "Where'd you go? I thought you'd be waiting for me."

"Just had to take care of something," he says, vaguely again, as he had been earlier that evening.

"You're certainly taking care of things tonight," she says. "Is everything okay?"

Hans nods slowly, and Elsa is immediately suspicious of his positive answer. "Yeah. Everything is fine now that you're not dancing with whats-his-face."

Elsa smiles. "Prince Edward."

"Yeah, him. He's been hanging around you all night."

"You've been keeping tabs."

"I have to size up my opponents."

"Opponents?"

"I thought about slugging a few of them."

"You did? Why?"

"A few of them were the ones that called you…names."

Recognition passes over Elsa. "Oh, yes, there were some here tonight. But that was a long time ago, Hans. And who told you who they were?"

He shrugs. "Anna."

"Of course she did," Elsa says, thinking about their potential conversation. "She didn't harass you too much, did she?"

Hans smiles, standing in front of her. "Not nearly enough."

"She told me she was going to give you tough questions."

"She gave a few," he says. "It could have been worse. She must have been feeling merciful today."

She leans back with her elbows on the balcony railing, looking up at him. "What did she end up asking you?"

"Like I said, the usual. What my true intentions are, why I'm here, that kind of thing. Pretty much what she's been asking for the past couple years."

Elsa stares at him, waiting for him to expand, but she relents. She'll have to find Anna for the whole story. "Alright, I'll stop asking for now."

He smirks, standing in front of her and placing his hands on either side of her, boxing her in. "I'll take that." He glances over her shoulder, looking down at the courtyard filled with the townspeople. They are still having a grand old time, dancing and reveling, drinking and eating, kissing and hugging and laughing, drunkenly singing.

"How long do royal weddings last?" he asks.

"Into the morning, usually," Elsa says. "It depends on how festive everyone is feeling."

"I'd say they're feeling pretty festive," Hans says. "I like it up here. Less crazy, more relaxed. No one bothering you."

"No one but you," she says, smiling up at him before wrinkling her nose. "Have you been drinking whiskey?"

Hans flushes, then he laughs. "Is it that strong?"

"Is that what you were taking care of?"

"Liquid courage, you know." He shrugs.

"Courage? For what?" she asks. She touches his cheek. "Are you nervous?"

"It's been a weird evening," Hans says, glancing away from her to the courtyard again. "Just something to take the edge off."

She rests one of her hands on his gripping the stone of the balcony railing. "There's no reason to be nervous, Hans."

"Of course there is," he says. "You always make me a little nervous."

She gives him a surprised little smile. "I shouldn't make you nervous."

He scoffs. "Well, you do." He leans forward and kisses her, seemingly contradicting himself. Elsa reaches up to wrap her hands around his head, tasting the dark, smoky tang of whiskey. His tongue slides into her with a deep warmth, curling her toes. Ice prickles out of her fingertips into his hair.

"Honestly," Hans says against her. "You make me want to hurl every time I see you."

She snorts. "Is that the whiskey talking or are you being serious?"

"Both I think," he says, kissing her again. "What were you going to tell me in there? Before the string bean interrupted us."

An abrupt laugh is pulled from her. "String bean? He really isn't that bad."

"Fine, I'm sure he's great. What were you going to tell me? It felt like it might have been important."

It felt like it was important, because it _was_ important. With his stare so intense upon her, in the coolness of the night, the words are lodged in her throat. Her stomach twists on itself, and the words that have been on the tip of her tongue all night stick to her gums like glue. While nothing has changed in the small amount of time since she was going to tell him, his open admittance to his nerves make hers pop up like flies.

"I, um…"

"You're blushing," he says.

"I know," she says. "I just, um…"

When she flounders, he kisses her again, as if trying to coax the glue to unstick her words. When they break away, Elsa is almost ready to say them when Hans interrupts.

He pats his breast pocket, reaching into it. "I've been thinking about this letter a lot, tonight. And you're right. I need to give it to you." He pulls out the folded letter, placing it gently into her hands. "It's the right setting. Romantic and all. I've passed my test. I've done everything I've wanted to do. There's only one last thing, and it's this."

She looks at the faded ecru of the parchment, noticing how… _old_ it looks. "When did you write this?"

"The evening you came to visit me," he says.

She fingers the lip of the fold, but before she opens it, he clears his throat.

"It's probably best if you read it by yourself," he says. "It'll save me the…humiliation."

"Humiliation?" she asks, looking at him funny. "Is this a _very_ provocative letter, then? Will it make me brew up an ice storm?" she says, letting an eye peak into the fold and only seeing her name at the top.

Hans chuckles. "Good question. But it's not provocative. Not in the same way as the others."

"Should I be disappointed?"

"I hope not," he says, trying to smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. He ducks his head. "I'll…see you inside."

He avoids her stare, turning, and running a hand through his hair. Elsa's heart pounds, and she feels as though this letter may finally be what they've been tiptoeing around all along.

* * *

Elsa,

Remember when you told me I would _know?_

I laughed at your words. Rolled my eyes. Thought, this queen certainly has high expectations for this feeling, and for me to ever feel it.

It's a shame, because you were right.

I admit it. It is a fullness and a flood. But it's also so much more than that. It's a forest fire. It's a glacial freeze. It is one thing, then turns into another without pause. It consumes me while it simultaneously fills me. It crackles and soothes. It's high tide that's taken me to sea, and I think I'll be lost in it forever.

I'm not sure if you could ever reciprocate this, nor do I expect it. I am only both desperate to tell you everything, and desperate to never mention it.

I underestimated it. I thought it was overrated. It was too pretty. It seemed a mere fascination, a dream. Something for only a few and not for many. Joke's on me. I feel both a fool and an enlightened idiot. Both blessed and cursed. I think this is what will drive me over the edge to true insanity.

I will die at the end of this. I lived by ignoring the thought. Then, working in the fields, I began to realize that the end of my life was approaching, and had always been approaching. I'd put in only as much meaning as I could muster—but always, in the back of my mind, I wondered if it was worth it. What did it matter if I began to regret and repent for my sins? What did it matter if I continued to write to you, to enjoy your banter and your words and the rest of the time you would give me, before you were whisked away by another man who could give you so, so much more? Who was infinitely better for you? Who could give you the world and the moon and all the stars?

This is what they call poetic justice, because I love you.

I love you, and I don't think I've truly loved anyone else.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. This chapter is a hard T. I don't believe it warrants changing to an M rating, so this is my warning, regardless.

Heart in his throat, Hans walks away as quickly from the balcony entrance as he can. He weaves through the throng of people who seem to be thinning, towards the area of the tables.

Right in the middle is Queen Anja, rematerialized as if she's always been there. She stands alone, the line of her black silk as severe as death, not a hair out of place. She is very beautiful, he thinks absently, in a dreadful, god-fearing kind of way. They catch eyes, and Hans takes a deep breath, making his way over to her.

"I thought you tucked tail and ran," Hans says.

She peers at him before sighing. "You would think so little of me."

"When I looked up earlier, you were gone, so I only assumed you came to say your peace and had nothing else to announce."

"I was only…unsure."

"That's a surprise. You're never unsure."

"It may surprise you even more to know that I am human."

Hans smiles a little. "And here I thought you were a robot all this time."

"Of course you did."

"Mother…" Hans sighs. "Did you really come all this way to tell me those things?"

She straightens her back, looking out into the crowd in front of them.

"I don't expect you to believe me, Hans, but I had hoped you would appreciate the action—the grand gesture—nonetheless." She glances at him. "You, more than anyone, knows the value of actions over words."

"Sure," Hans says. "But not even you would say such nice things to me. I've decided that they're so out of character, they must be true."

She smiles a bit, her lips a tight line. "I thought you might consider this with a heavier grain of salt."

Hans looks over her for a moment. "But…why? Why now, all of a sudden?"

She shakes her head slowly. "It may seem sudden to you, Hans, but it hasn't been. Remember, I came to see you in your cell. I overruled your father for Queen Elsa to free you. I wanted you to have a chance that you were never given within our family."

"Because you care?"

"I'm not affectionate, Hans, but I am still a mother. I care for each one of you even if you don't see it."

Hans opens his mouth but pauses. "I…it's a little much to take in, mother."

"I know," she says. "But now you have the time to take it in, if you choose."

They look at one another for a while. Eventually, Hans nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"And I think you have a woman who will show you affection and love, who will give you what you have been lacking in all your life," Queen Anja says, and she glances forward again. Hans follows her gaze, landing on Elsa. She is scanning the room with fervor, passing between aisles of bodies as she makes her way unwittingly closer to them.

"I love her," Hans says, out loud for the first time, and it is a different kind of freedom. It unlocks a final rush from him, of fierce protection and abundant fear. "She's made me realize what it means and…who I can be."

Queen Anja touches his shoulder, just once, for a moment, and Hans doesn't jerk away.

"Be well, my child," she says, and she turns, walking down the carpeted pathway. She exits the room, her shoulders a rigid, faultless line. Hans watches her go in wonder. He suddenly knows that he'll see her again, someday, because he _wants_ to see her again. It's as shocking a revelation as everything else in his life.

"Hans!"

His stomach plunges immediately, and he looks forward. Elsa stands in front of him, her right hand gripping the letter, denting it with deep creases. Her hand shakes a little, and there is a sheen of frost on the parchment. Her eyes are red, and he realizes instantly that she's crying, the tears forming thin, icy roads down her cheeks and around her jaw. They glitter under the lantern lights above them.

"Elsa," he says, and his whole body is in a state of hesitation. He takes half a step forward, and she matches him. They stare at each other for a moment before Hans finally says, "I hope it wasn't that badly worded."

An abrupt laugh finds its way out of her, and the smile that it brings stays on her face. "No, it…it wasn't."

She takes the remaining steps between them, and she pulls him down into a kiss. It is a messy kiss, the kind that wants to say too many things in too short a space. Their teeth click, their lips twist around one another like flailing limbs in a desperate hug.

"I love you, too," she says in a rush, kissing him again and again. "I love you and you're not dying and what you want does matter."

He pulls her closer to him, impossibly closer and not close enough. "I only want you, so I guess you're right."

She smiles against him, running her hands up inside his suit jacket, clawing her fingers into his shirt. "Wanna get out of here?"

Light-headed, his hands full of her hips, he says, "I've wanted to get out of here since we got here."

Laughing lightly, she grabs his hand and pulls him along toward the flight of stairs on the far side of the room. "Come on, then."

They only make it to the top of the stairs before they begin kissing again. He pushes her into a wall and she wraps her legs around his waist and her hands tangle in his hair.

"Do you think—we'll make it—to your room?" he asks her.

"We probably should," she says, continuing to kiss him. She wraps herself tighter around him, and when he kisses her neck, she moans softly.

"Okay, yeah, room," he says, trying to back away from her as she lets her feet touch the floor. She doesn't let him get far—it suddenly feels that any contact lost is a very large inconvenience, a punishable offense.

When they finally stumble over one another into her room, Hans pulls the door closed and locks it behind them.

They breathe heavily, pausing to look at each other. Elsa's eyes are glassy, the apples of her cheeks frosty and pink. Fractals run from her fingers and cover his waistcoat like an icy web, entrapping him in a frozen cocoon.

"I've never been in your room before," he says, suddenly feeling the rapture of the walls, the glow from the moonlight seeping through the windows.

"I don't let anyone in my room except for Anna or my ladies in waiting," she answers.

"It's a privilege, Your Grace," he smiles, dipping forward to kiss her.

"Oh, stop," she chuckles, dragging her hands up to the back of his neck. Her fingers form trenches in his hair, twisting and twirling as she kisses him back. The sensation pulls a guttural moan from his throat. She pushes up against him, and Hans presses into the door. She begins to pull off his suit jacket. His hands bunch up the body of her skirt.

"Tell me what you want, Elsa," Hans breathes into her. "Tell me, and I'll do it."

She looks over him, her eyes a dark blue—almost black. Her lips curve into a knowing smirk, like a shimmering crescent moon, and it reminds him of the smirk she gave him that first day on the fields. Playfully, she says, "You know what I want, Hans." She presses her hand on his chest, and he shudders underneath the pressure. She leans forward so her lips find his ear. "Touch me like your letters. Make me feel how you felt in your dreams."

There is too much fabric between them. Hans reaches behind her to feel for the ties of her bodice. Silk ribbons crisscross in a mesh of lines, and Hans goes about pulling loose each one. Elsa keeps still for him as he works, before she begins to unbutton his waistcoat. Hans' fingers burn with the necessity of need and desire, but he keeps his undoing of her bodice slow and unhurried, watching her breathe deeply and quickly, her own fingers fumbling with his shirt.

Once the top threads are unwound, Hans only has to pull. It unravels easily, simply, as smooth as butter. Elsa opens his shirt and reveals his chest, leaning forward to kiss the divot connecting his neck and his collarbone. Hans sharply exhales, reaching forward to undress her. She backs away from him before he can.

"No," she says. "I can do it. You might rip it."

Hans almost laughs, because that is exactly what he was going to do. Instead, the laugh is drowned by his swallow as Elsa peels off her sleeves and her bodice, the rest of the dress falling to a pool at her feet. She steps out of it, covered only by the thin chemise of her undergarments. When he doesn't move, she steps forward in front of him again. She begins to remove the rest of his shirt. His hands reach up into her hair, finding the hidden pins and gently teasing them out. Her hair falls down in chunks, layer upon layer, with shorter hair in the front and longer hair trailing down her back.

Hans' waistcoat and shirt are thrown to the side. He grabs her hips again and kisses her, relishing the vulnerable feeling of her cotton chemise against the bare skin of his chest. Then he lifts her up, plucking her like a loose rose in a vase, and carries her to the four poster bed, covered in fluffy cushions and a luxurious comforter. It gives way with a satin ease, both of them sinking into the middle.

Hans continues to kiss her, slowly at first, thinking of everything they can do, everything he's imagined, with the slowness pulling at him with a deep, ponderous stitch of fire. His heart beats wildly underneath her wandering hands, and he finally leans back when she tries ineffectually to unbuckle his pants.

In the stark, bright streaks of moonlight, her hair is almost fluorescent against the bedsheets. It is curled and spread out in wild abandon, like fingers reaching and grasping. Her arms are out to the sides, and her chest heaves, and she squirms under his gaze, and Hans didn't think he could want her any more than he already does, but witnessing her half naked beneath him—

Everything stirs inside of him. He's boiling. Ice sparks from her fingertips, trailing in swirls and abstract shapes and down the sides of the bed, like a stream of unintelligible words from her lips, trying to say things that mean nothing and everything all at once.

She lifts a hand and rests it on his stomach. It soothes the boiling to a simmer.

"Is this the part where I tell you how much you want me?" she asks, teasingly, but she isn't smiling. Her face is slanted with the darkness of desire, and he nearly loses his mind.

He takes a few moments to shove off his boots, his pants, and before Elsa can reach toward him, he slips a hand under the hem of her chemise.

"Do you trust me with this next thing, Elsa?"

"Of course I do," she says, still squirming, still trying to reach him. She goes to sit up, but he eases her back down, kissing her as he edges her shift up and up. She arches her back to help him, and she lifts her arms as it goes over her head.

He gazes down at her for a moment, but she reaches up and pulls him down to her, pressing her naked chest against his own, smashing their lips together, madly, desperately. His hands trail against the sides of her breast, down her ribcage, and she gasps into the kiss, gently moaning as his fingers hit the line of her delicate underwear.

She laughs a little. "I remember your briefs strewn across your basement floor," she whispers, pushing her hip against his hand. "Now they'll be strewn across mine."

Hans lightly bites her neck. "I knew you'd been thinking about my underwear, all this time."

He hooks his finger around the fabric, and gives it a quick tug. They pass her knees, and she kicks them off to the side. She allows her legs to surround him, sitting up and reaching for the waistline of his briefs.

"Let me take them off," she says. "Let me feel you, too."

He kisses her, tenderly pushing her back down to the bed. His hips settle on hers, and she makes the faintest moan. Hans presses harder against her, and she jerks, moans a little louder.

"Hans," she pleads.

"You will," he promises. "But you asked me to make you feel like my dreams."

Her fingers curl into his shoulders. "But I—"

"Let me do it, first," he says, kissing her again, pressing into her with gradual weight, gradual friction.

"Oh— _oh_ ," she breathes, her legs squeezing at his thighs. He trails a hand down toward the pressure between them, his fingers dipping along the heated skin, sliding along the curve of her.

Her hips undulate against his hand, and she stares at him with half-lidded eyes, her neck arching. Her spirit fights against the confines of her skin as she writhes, control escaping her. A butterfly of ice covers the cushions underneath her.

"Oh, Hans," she breathes, both a command and a plea. "Don't stop."

He doesn't.

He doesn't stop until he watches her come undone, until he feels her unravel, until she squeezes so hard against him, unable to let go. And then he does it again and again until Elsa finally grasps him with her own bare hands.

She tells him, "I need you, now." She gently squeezes, running her fingers up and down with light pressure that is both teasing and overwhelming, and he groans.

"Make love to me," she says.

So he does, again and again, as much as their bodies allow.

* * *

She wakes up with her chin resting on Hans' shoulder. His chest rises and falls deeply with the measured slowness of sleep. The morning light is only beginning to stream in through the windows, the glow softly warming up the room with a comforting sprawl of whites and yellows.

Hans has an unburdened peacefulness along his skin, the line of his mouth relaxed, the midline of his brow smooth. Elsa realizes, at that moment, how much she's used to seeing lines on his face, either with knitted eyebrows or a slight frown at the corners of his lips. It makes her realize, too, how much she loves the serenity that resides there, and how much she wants it to stay.

She reaches a hand up before she thinks better of it, afraid she'll wake him up. Instead, she relishes the warmth between them, their legs tangled under the sheets, his arm lying across her stomach like a protective bandage.

Eventually he shifts, opening his eyes and sighing. He looks down at her, catching her eye, and he smiles.

"Good morning," she says.

"Good morning," he says, squeezing her hip. He brings her close, kissing her jawline. "Did last night happen?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm very naked under the sheets."

"Mm. I did notice."

She shifts a bit, moving her legs around. She winces a bit. "I'm also a little sore."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, you didn't," she says, reaching up to touch his face. "It was anything but hurt, you know."

He grins, running his thumb along the jut of her hip. "I heard no complaints last night."

"No complaints, but I think I forgot my name for a while."

Hans kisses her neck, slow and tender. "Me too. I died and came back to life a few times."

"How did you know...? I mean, that was the first time either of us..."

He seems to know what she's asking. He looks a bit sheepish when he answers, "Your library is very big. I read a few things."

"Oh, you read a few things?"

He shrugs with a carelessness that is negated by the intensity of his eyes. "With you, I wanted to do things right the first time."

Elsa's skin thrums under his gaze. His words fill her up until she's overflowing. This feeling seems to have permanently settled somewhere underneath her sternum between her lungs and her heart. She brings him forward in a kiss, curling her legs with his, pulling their bodies closer.

"You know," he says. "The best way to work out soreness is to do the same activity at a lower intensity..."

Elsa laughs. "Is that right?"

"That's what we do in training."

"Hmm..." she hums, kissing him again. It begins slow and steady, Hans delicately squeezing her along her bottom. She moans, running her hands down his chest, scraping icy nails across his abdomen, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

He rolls her over, licking her intently, biting her collarbone, weighing her skin in his hands. He becomes single-minded in his pursuits when they begin to kiss, his eyes enveloped in a glazed-over madness. Her heart races, and it's suddenly like the touches are new and novel, fueled with fire and want and need.

When they lay together again, the sun slants at a different angle through the window and just glances off the legs of her bed. They may have been loving one another for hours or days, but no one has bothered to knock at her door, and Elsa is just fine with that.

They lay on their sides, staring at one another. They watch each other. He looks at her with a fierce tenderness that electrifies her.

"Anna asked me what I would do if you married someone else," Hans says, eventually.

"What did you say?"

He smiles faintly, and there's a line of discomfort forming around his jaw. "I said I would do whatever you asked me. I'd do my best, anyway. I don't think I could stay here."

Elsa suddenly realizes what Anna was trying to tease out. "Oh, Hans," she says. "I'd never ask you to stay if...something changed."

He shakes his head. "Even if you did. I'd still want to protect you, but I don't think I'd be able to. I'd have to leave."

"When you said that, what did Anna say?"

"She asked me if I loved you. I told her I couldn't answer that, or she'd think I was lying."

Elsa smiles. "Well, it seems like you answered her question, anyway."

"I think she tricked me into saying good things about you. She told me some of your old courting pals were around, and she told me one of them said he thought you had a stick up your ass. I nearly started a fight."

At that, Elsa laughs. "Hans! You didn't! It's just an opinion, and he doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Hans says gruffly. "I think that's what tipped Anna off about my feelings."

"That sounds right," she says, laying her hand on his own.

"She even told me to tell you. I was shocked."

Elsa raises a brow. "That is surprising. You must have been very obvious."

Hans smirks. "Hard to hide it anymore, I guess. I'm tired of hiding it."

"Yes," she says. "I am, too."

They are quiet for a while, running their fingers together. Finally, Hans says, "My mother was there, at the reception."

Elsa stills. "What? She was?"

He nods. "To say I was caught off guard would be an understatement."

Elsa begins to frown. "I should have told you she was sent an invitation. That's my fault. She never replied, and I believed she wasn't going to come because she knew you wouldn't want her there, but I should have known better. She loves you. I should have—"

"Elsa," he interrupts, gently stopping her. "Elsa, it's okay. She was...surprising, but it wasn't terrible. It was actually...civil. She said..." he swallows, his words suddenly stemmed. "She said, ah...that she cared. She said...she was sorry. It was a bit jarring, you know. Hearing the great Queen Anja say that she cared for her lowly, inadequate son who never belonged. I was so angry," he says, looking away from her. The taut lines around his face begin to reappear, the serenity moments ago that had lasted so long a time now erasing itself from the canvas of his skin. "I was so angry at her, for showing up here, for provoking me and making me feel like I attained nothing, and then suddenly telling me that she cares. That's she's always cared. I didn't believe her for a moment, still, until I realized she had nothing to gain from saying it besides humiliation. And that's bad enough, isn't it? Only knowing she's telling the truth because it didn't put her in a good light."

Hans sighs, closing his eyes and letting go of her hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. Elsa watches him, letting him talk. She's never heard him talk so openly about his feelings toward his family outside of the letters.

"And then she was in the ballroom after I left you on the balcony. By then I felt like I had nothing left to lose, and when I saw her..." he pauses, swallowing. "I was _glad._ I didn't want her to have run away. So I asked her why, why tell me these things now, out of seemingly nowhere, and she said it wasn't as sudden for her as it was for me. You were right, Elsa. Her visiting me in the cell. Her agreeing to your proposal of me to leave the Isles and come here. She was...trying her best. I don't understand her well, but I'm beginning to understand her enough. I think I'm beginning to open my mind to the idea of her being a mother instead of a Queen." Hans looks at Elsa with eyes a bit raw and exposed. "It's all a bit...new. And weird."

"New and weird is okay," Elsa says. "That means it will become old and normal. It'll get better, even if it doesn't seem like it will. If you continue to give her a chance, I think she will do her best to prove herself to you, Hans. If she's as stubborn as you, I'm sure she'll take every chance she can."

Hans smiles at her, taking a deep breath. The lines loosen, not as knotted. His shoulders relax. He takes her words to heart, and, she thinks, he has for a very long time.

"I love you, Elsa."

She scoots closer and gives him a chaste kiss. "I love you, too."

* * *

It takes Hans another year to become knighted. During that time, Elsa does not allow their courtship to be a secret. She lets it be known throughout the castle and, when asked, the country.

The castle inhabitants, if they have any misgivings about their relationship, do not voice them. Hans is surprised when some of the servants smile at him, on occasion, when he walks down the hallways. He finds their army and guards showing more respect and less disdain. Less suspicion in their eyes, more regard.

Chief Gerald's respect for him significantly helps the level of esteem Hans garners, and Anna's support for the relationship between him and her sister seemed to be the final act of acceptance. Her support nullified all opposition in the immediate family of the castle and most of Arendelle.

Queen Anja travels to Arendelle for the occasional holiday or festival, in which her and Hans begin to create a tentative relationship with his mother for the first time. Insults and sarcasm remain, but it doesn't have the same overtone of hate or condescension. It is almost affectionate, in an off-hand kind of way.

When Hans finally proposes to Elsa, the wedding preparations are immediate and overwhelming and abundant. Hans is asked questions about items he doesn't care about and defers them all to Elsa, who gives him weary glares at the end of the days.

When Hans is asked if he's fit and ready to rule by the servants, guards, or Anna, he shrugs nonchalantly and says, "Elsa has ruled for so long on her own that I'll merely be her extra set of hands and eyes. She may even make me do all the paper work she hates, and I'll be fine with that."

And ten years on, when Hans is walking down the hallways of the castle, he pauses at a portrait. It's a painting of Elsa and her family, with her husband and darling children, the contented looks on their faces—and Hans is always humbled when he stands before them, reminded of where he used to be and the monster he had been and who he is now, looking at the painted hand holding Elsa's, the children who have green eyes and blue and who do not feel abandoned or alone.

"Admiring our progress?" Elsa asks, coming up behind him. She hooks their arms together.

Hans smiles at her. "I'm always amazed when I look at the portrait, remembering how it all turned out."

She rests her head on his shoulder, following his gaze to the portrait.

"The power of letters," she sighs.

He brings his arm around her waist. "Yes. The power of letters. And hope, and time, and courage."

"Love, too," she says, laughing. She tips her head up to the side to kiss him.

Yes, he thinks. The power of love.


End file.
